THE   MAID   OF   MIRABELLE 


BY   ELIOT   H.    ROBINSON 


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JOAN 


DROPPED  ON   HER  KNEES  BEFORE  THE  CROSS 


(See  page  280) 


THE  MAID  OF 
MIRABELLE 

A  Romance  of  Lorraine 
BY  ELIOT  H.  ROBINSON 

AUTHOR  OF 
'Smiles'  a  Rose  of  the  Cumberland*,"  "Man  Proposes,"  etc. 


FRONTISPIECE  BY 
THE  AUTHOR 


A.  L.  BURT  COMPANY 

Publishers  New  York 

Published    by    arrangement   with    The    Page    Company 


Copyright,  1920,  by 
THE  PAGE  COMPANY 

Entered  at  Stationers'  Hall,  London 
All  rights  reserved 


To 

All  Who  Love  France  Unseen, 

Or  Having  Seen  Her 

Love  Her  the  More  Despite  Her  Failings, 

This  Book  is  Respectfully 

Dedicated. 


2137946 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER  PAGE 

THE  SETTING  ;w  ,.,  i 

I.  DANIEL  AND  FAITH  .         .  ;„  •..,  12 

II.  JOAN        ....  ...  ;.,  25 

III.  IN  THE  DARK  .         .         .,  .,  ..,  39 

IV.  THE  RED  RIVER        .         .,  :.,  .  56 
V.  BY  THE  POST    .         .         .,  ,.,  ..,  67 

VI.  NOVEMBER  THE  ELEVENTH  ...  .;  78 

VII.  WHERE  HISTORY  WAS  MADE  .  .  90 

VIII.  WITHIN  THE  PORT  OF  FRANCE  .  .  100 

IX.  THE  ROAD  TO  MIRABELLE  .  .  .  117 

X.  THE  PROPHECY  OF  OLD  BARBETTE  .,  128 

XL  THE  HEART  OF  A  HOME    .  ..,  .  139 

XII.  THE  "MORROW"      .         .  „,  ;.  156 

XIII.  CONVERGING  PATHS  ..        .,  .,  ;.  174 

XIV.  THE  SINGERS    .         ..        .-  :..  .  192 
XV.  MORNING          .        >         .,  .  .  203 

XVI.  NOON       .         .        ;.,        ...  :.,  ..  217 

XVII.  AFTERNOON       .        :.,        t.,  ;.,  .  232 

XVIII.  EVENING           .         .         .,  -.,  .  245 

XIX.  NIGHT                        ,:  ..  .  256 

XX.  "THE  MAID"  .         .         .-  „  (.  270 

XXI.  SUZETTE'S  CONFESSION    — ; —  .,  ...  285 

THE  END  AND  THE  BEGINNING  .,  .  300 


THE 

MAID   OF  MIRABELLE 


THE  SETTING 

MORNING  in  Mirabelle! 

A  cock  crows,  Joshua-like  commanding  the  sun, 
which  seems  to  obey,  not  by  standing  still  —  as  at 
the  behest  of  the  biblical  patriarch  —  but  by  rising. 
Is  it  wholly  my  imagination,  or  has  that  clarion 
coc-co-ri-co  a  note  of  exultation  as  though  chanti- 
cleer really  believes  himself  responsible  for  the 
miracle  of  the  sunrise;  or,  perchance,  knows  and  is 
proud  that  he  is  the  chosen  symbol  of  his  own  vic- 
torious France? 

A  warm,  rosy  flush  steals  through  the  wide 
opened  portals  of  my  chamber  window.  Slowly, 
but  inexorably,  it  puts  to  flight  the  legions  of  dark- 
ness which,  since  sundown,  have  reigned  unchal- 
lenged save  by  the  feeble  flicker  of  one  tallow 
candle  tip  —  for  Mirabelle  has  yet  to  make  the 
acquaintance  of  either  electricity  or  gas.  It  tints 

1 


2      THE  MAID  OF  MIRABELLE 

the  bare  white  walls;  it  softens  the  crude  colors  of 
the  few  brilliantly  lithographed  angels  and  the 
Virgin  and  her  Child;  it  creeps  further  in  to  en- 
halo  the  crucifix  above  the  head  of  my  four-post 
bed,  and  imparts  to  the  tiny  porcelain  stove  (whose 
presence  marks  my  bedroom  as  one  of  exceptional 
luxury)  a  red  glow  as  though  last  evening's  fire 
still  burned  therein. 

I  see  the  dawn  through  drowsy  eyes,  which 
close,  only  to  start  open  again  as  the  restored  si- 
lence is  once  more  pierced  by  another  clarion  call. 
Now  a  bugle,  before  the  barrack  just  over  the  way, 
is  singing  in  silver  tones  the  staccato  notes  of  the 
reveille.  "  Poilu  get  up,  poilu  get  up,  poiln  get  up, 
it's  morning,"  it  seems  to  say.  The  command  is 
not  addressed  to  me,  and  I  lazily  turn  over  under 
the  fluffy  feather  counterpane  that  covers  me  like 
heaped-up  snow  on  a  grave,  the  high  head-and-foot 
stones  of  which  are  hand-carved  black  walnut, 
beautiful  with  age. 

I  strive  to  shut  out  the  sounds  of  stirring  life 
by  burying  both  ears  simultaneously  in  the  pillow, 
and  fail.  For  now,  from  the  near-by  convent, 
whose  square  tower  and  squat  steeple  rises  above 
the  village  like  a  guardian  sentinel,  the  morning 
Angelus  begins  it  ringing  welcome  to  the  new-born 
day. 


THE   SETTING 


Clang!  Clang!  Clang!  The  bells  in  turn  sound 
out  the  tonal  trinity,  the  last  —  sonorously  deep  of 
voice  —  speaking  in  slow,  measured  notes  as 
though  it  scorned  to  be  hurried  at  its  time  of  life. 
Now  all  three  join  in  the  glad  matutinal  chorus. 

A  dog  barks  in  the  street,  and  from  somewhere 
near  at  hand  —  seemingly  just  beneath  my  bedroom 
floor  —  comes  the  muffled  bla-a-a  of  a  goat,  and  the 
answer  of  its  mate.  It  is  underneath  my  chamber 
floor,  for  here  in  Mirabelle  one  irregular  roof 
covers  both  man  and  beast,  and  in  the  smooth  ce- 
ment front  wall,  close  by  the  narrow  doorway  for 
the  family,  is  a  much  more  imposing  arched  en- 
trance for  billy  and  bossy,  and  for  chanticleer  and 
his  tribe. 

From  the  uneven  roadway  there  sounds  the 
scrape  and  clatter  of  wooden  shoes.  Mirabelle  — 
all  of  Lorraine,  indeed  —  will  cease  to  be  itself 
when  it  proves  untrue  to  the  sabots  which  once 
shod,  if  not  adorned,  the  feet  of  Jeanne,  maiden 
immortal,  as  she  fed  her  flock  on  the  slopes  above 
Domremy  not  so  many  miles  away. 

"Bon  jour,  Madame,"  and  "Bon  jour,  Mes- 
sieurs," two  early  voices  come  floating  upward. 

The  bugle  sings  another  song.  There  is  a  con- 
fused sound  of  many  heavy  boots  and  voices;  then 
silence,  a  clear  word  of  command  — "  En  avant 


4      THE  MAID  OF  MIRABELLE 

mar  die  I"  and  a  rhythmic  clump,  clump,  clump, 
clump,  diminishing  down  the  street.  But  before 
the  tramp  of  marching  feet  wholly  dies  away  it  is 
augmented  first  by  one,  then  by  a  hundred  fresh 
young  voices  in  swinging  song,  "  C'est  le  cui  —  le 
cui  —  le  cui  —  le  cuisinier;  le  cuisinier  du  bataillon, 
qui  fait  le  bon  bouillon."  * 

The  song  and  tramping  feet  turn  a  corner  and 
are  lost  to  the  ear.  Once  again  I  try  to  overtake 
fast-fleeting  slumber.  In  vain.  There  comes  a 
new  disturbance.  Rat-a-tat-tat.  Rat-a-tat-tat  — 
tattat.  A  drum  is  sounding  spasmodically  and  sans 
military  measure.  I  hear  the  noise  of  near-by  doors 
and  windows  hastily  flung  open,  and  now  a  stri- 
dent, somewhat  husky  voice  begins  to  intone  some- 
thing in  a  jumble  of  French.  The  words  are  un- 
intelligible, but  I  recognize  the  voice.  It  is  that  of 
the  venerable  town  crier  —  for  in  this  tiny  hamlet, 
removed  from  all  such  adjuncts  of  the  modern 
world  as  newspapers,  the  telegraph  and  the  tele- 
phone (except  that  belonging  to  the  military)  and 
railroad  even,  he  still  holds  a  vital  place  in  the 
life  of  every  day. 

There  is  something  strangely  romantic  about  that 
compelling  drum  and  chanting  voice.  It  stirs  the 
imagination,  and  I  close  my  now  wide-awake  eyes 

1 "  It's  the  battalion  cook  who  makes  the  good  soup." 


THE   SETTING 


and  try  to  picture  their  possessor  clad  in  leathern 
jerkin,  doublet  and  hose,  and  crying  forth  the  news 
of  some  medieval  event  —  the  sack  of  a  city;  a 
threatened  invasion  which  calls  all  menfolk  to 
arms ;  or  at  least  an  order  from  the  feudal  baron  in 
his  chateau-fort  on  the  hill  across  the  river,  re- 
minding his  village  vassals  that  their  tithes  are  due 
to-day.  But  such  imagery  is  difficult.  Too  often 
have  I  seen  him,  a  warped  woolen  cap  covering  his 
unkempt  gray  hair  and  clad  in  an  old  patched  coat, 
baggy  pantaloons  and  clumsy  sabots. 

However,  human  curiosity  will  not  longer  be 
denied.  It  tempts  me  from  my  comfortable  bed  to 
the  open  window  —  just  in  time  to  hear  that  a 
cinema  exhibition  will  be  given  in  the  town  hall  of 
the  neighboring  village  to-night.  Of  all  anti- 
climaxes ! 

The  crier  moves  up  the  street  to  address  another 
gathering,  but  for  a  moment  I  remain,  gazing  over 
the  quaint  seventeenth-century  scene  stretched  out 

before  my  twentieth-century  eyes. 

******** 

May  in  Mirabelle! 

From  horizon  to  zenith  the  morning  sky  is  a 
hazy  melting  blue,  the  color  of  those  uniforms 
which  so  lately  turned  the  corner  —  perhaps  it  were 
better  to  say  the  color  that  they  had  been  before 


6      THE  MAID  OF  MIRABELLE 

passing  through  the  inferno  of  the  Argonne.  It 
lends  patches  of  its  hue  to  the  small,  irregular 
pools  of  water  in  the  cobbled  road;  it  rained  during 
the  night,  and  the  tawny  dust  of  yesterday  has,  for 
the  time,  reverted  into  an  evil  suggestion  of  the  om- 
nipresent, horribly  clinging,  ankle-deep,  wholly  ir 
describable  mud  of  early  spring. 

Below  me  the  narrow  road  limps  unevenly  down, 
to  end  where  the  clear,  cold  waters  of  the  beauti- 
ful Moselle  are  sending  forth  golden  glints  as  the 
slanting  sunbeams  dance  upon  their  eddying  ripples. 
On  either  side  the  gray-white  houses,  builded-to- 
remain  of  cement-coated  stone,  descend  linked  to- 
gether, not,  however,  after  the  manner  of  city 
dwellings,  but  like  friendly  old  neighbors  arm  in 
arm. 

From  the  squat  chimneys  of  all  save  one,  thin 
blue  smoke  from  early  wood  fires  is  curling  up- 
wards, but  to  that  single  exception  the  eye  invari- 
ably returns  as  to  a  flaw  in  some  otherwise  perfect 
picture.  It  is  as  though  an  insane  giant,  striding 
across  the  landscape,  had  stepped  once  in  Mira- 
belle,  and  hurried  on,  leaving  in  his  path  one  hap- 
less home  crushed  to  earth.  I  have  seen  whole 
towns  and  cities  left  in  shattered  ruins  by  the  same 
mad  destroyer,  for  just  across  the  line  of  not  far 
distant  hills  the  Reaper  whose  name  is  Death 


THE   SETTING 


swung  his  scythe  in  broad  swathes,  but  in  all  their 
pitiableness  they  have  never  affected  me  as  does 
that  single  cottage  across  the  way,  almost  obliter- 
ated by  one  chance  bomb  out  of  the  night  sky, 
when  some  Boche  airman,  bent  on  wanton  destruc- 
tion, caught  the  faint  gleam  of  a  peaceful  light, 
carelessly  displayed  for  an  instant  somewhere  in  the 
village,  and  sent  hurtling  earthward  one  of  the  deadly 
missiles,  meant,  perhaps,  for  Nancy  or  for  Toul. 

Beyond  the  little  ruined  home  appears  the  only 
other  silent  witness  that  devastating  war  had  raged 
around  our  peaceful  village  for  more  than  four 
bitter  years.  There  lies  "  God's  acre,"  with  its 
walled-in  rows  of  gray  crosses,  all  too  many  of 
which  bear  the  tri-colored  rosettes  that  mutely  tell 
the  tale  of  sleepers,  dead  in  battle  —  for  France. 

Near-by  a  small  orchard  shows  its  early  green, 
and  there  I  catch  a  glimpse  of  my  proprietaire  al- 
ready hard  at  work  pruning  the  plum  trees  which 
are  known  by  the  name  that  I  have  chosen  for  my 
village  (it  lies,  in  fact,  in  the  Mirabelle  country) 
and  whose  possession  alone  assures  their  owner  of 
a  fair  living,  for  of  their  fruit  is  made  the  much 
prized  gin,  called  Mirabelle.  Beside  the  orchard, 
the  rich  brown  furrows  of  a  small  garden  plot  are 
already  beginning  to  turn  green,  as  the  land  brings 
forth  its  increase. 


8      THE  MAID  OF  MIRABELLE 

I  lift  my  eyes  to  the  hills,  which  appear  like 
forms  kneeling  lowly  at  the  feet  of  the  distant 
Vosges  mountains,  clad  in  majestic  purple.  Their 
rhythmic  elevations  are  five  miles  away  at  least, 
yet  they  seem  but  a  few  moments'  walk  distant, 
so  pure  is  the  air  this  morning,  and  the  tiny  trees 
atop  them  show  trunk  and  branch  against  the  pale 
blue  background,  as  though  drawn  upon  it  in  black 
ink,  by  a  pen  infinitely  fine. 

Still  closer,  just  across  the  river,  is  one  solitary 
hill  that  rises  precipitously  from  the  water's  edge, 
its  steep  ascent  made  the  more  difficult  by  man- 
built  walls  of  reddish  stone,  now  moss,  and  lichen 
splashed,  with  here  and  there  a  black  slit  behind 
which,  once  upon  a  time,  long,  long  ago,  the  watch- 
ful sentry  stood  and  the  archer  bent  his  bow  to 
safeguard  from  hostile  visitors  their  master's  cha- 
teau-fortress on  the  summit  above.  Only  a  few 
shattered  walls  and  scattered  stones  remain,  torn 
asunder,  more  than  a  century  past,  by  angry  men  in 
red  caps  to  whom  the  grim  pile  stood  as  a  symbol 
of  despotic  power  in  a  land  which  would  be  free; 
and  now  trees,  the  girth  of  a  man's  waist,  them- 
selves entwined  with  ancient  vines  and  perpetually 
green  with  moss,  stand  where  the  lordly  halls  of 
Monseigneur  had  once  stood;  and,  where  of  old 
the  cavaliers  of  medieval  France  had  lived  and 


THE  SETTING 


loved,  and  wined  and  danced,  now  only  the  vagrant 
crow  has  habitation. 

My  eyes  are  once  more  drawn  from  the  fasci- 
nating hill  to  a  barely  discernible  form,  kneeling  by 
the  swift-flowing  river,  which  sweeps  its  base.  It 
is  some  aged  grandam,  bent  in  body  by  the  weight 
of  years,  and  burdens,  both  physical  and  spiritual — 
burdens  which  have  long  been  the  common  lot  of 
all  women  of  France,  but  especially  of  those  who 
have  dwelt  within  the  sight  and  sound  of  battle. 
Up  with  the  sun  to  do  the  family  washing  in  the 
icy  waters  of  the  Moselle,  she  is  kneeling  there,  her 
petticoats  tucked  up  about  her,  and  her  woolen- 
stockinged  shanks  emerging  from  wooden  sabots, 
as  she  paddles  and  slaps  the  coarse  garments  of 
three,  perhaps  of  four  generations  into  immacu- 
lateness. 

And  beyond  and  beyond  on  every  side  stretch 
undulating  fields,  quietly  asleep  and  smiling,  as 
though  they  had  not,  during  four  years,  shuddered 
day  and  night  in  sympathy  with  their  sisters  be- 
yond the  hills,  as  they  trembled  beneath  the  shock 
of  battle  and  the  blows  of  bursting  shell.  Time  it 
is,  indeed,  that  the  stricken  fields  should  rest  awhile, 
and  give  to  Mother  Nature  a  chance  to  heal  their 
gaping  wounds. 

Over  them  smiles  the  cloudless  sky,  for  it  is  May 


10     THE  MAID  OF  MIRABELLE 

in  Mirabelle,  and  peace  has  come  once  more  to 

France. 

******** 

Was  ever  scene  more  tranquil,  idyllic?  In  such 
a  setting  could  life  be  aught  but  simple  and  sub- 
dued? Could  a  drama  with  its  theme  as  big  as 
the  wide  world  and  as  deep  as  human  nature  have 
been  enacted  amid  such  surroundings?  It  seems 
impossible,  and  yet  .  .  . 

A  snatch  of  bird-like  song,  sung  in  a  sweet,  un- 
trained voice,  rises  to  my  ears.  I  lean  out  of  the 
window,  to  look  down  on  Joan  as  she  stands  just 
outside  the  door  below,  with  one  shapely  arm,  bare 
to  the  elbow,  stretched  out  and  a  small  hand  rest- 
ing on  the  lintel.  Her  face  is  hidden  from  me  by 
its  crown  of  rich,  dark  hair,  braided  and  coiled 
around  her  head,  but  I  can  picture  the  expression 
upon  it  as  the  song  breaks  off  with  a  little  catching 
of  the  breath.  At  least  I  feel  sure  that  the  big, 
dark  brown  eyes  which  hold  a  depth  like  a  shad- 
owed pool  in  the  October  woods,  have  suddenly 
become  mistily  luminous,  filled  with  a  shadow  that 
I  know  so  well ;  that  the  sweet  sensitive  lips,  shaped 
and  colored  to  make  an  artist  worship  and  despair, 
quiver  for  the  barest  moment;  that  the  warm  flush 
of  youth  and  health  has  briefly  fled  from  her  fair 
cheeks.  Perhaps  it  is  all  merely  in  my  imagina- 


THE   SETTING  11 

tion  —  this,  and  the  thought  that  the  sudden  break 
in  her  glad  song  occurred  when  her  eyes  rested,  as 
had  my  own  but  an  instant  ago,  on  the  little  grave- 
yard yonder. 

I  see  her  pass  her  hand  hastily  across  her  eyes, 
but  as  she  turns  to  re-enter  the  house  the  song  is 
begun  again.  Can  I  blame  her? 

Surely  it  is  youth's  privilege  to  forget,  and 
surely  there  should  be  no  place  for  memoried  grief 
in  one  day  of  a  young  girl's  life,  at  least.  And  I 
know  that  this  is  the  day  of  days  for  Joan  —  her 
marriage  morning. 

A  bird,  black  as  the  coal  and  white  as  the  snow, 
darts  by  the  window  and  soars  into  the  blue,  echo- 
ing the  final  note  of  Joan's  song.  Below,  a  clean 
pink-and-white  pig  noses  its  way  into  a  flock  of 
hens  and  sends  the  silly  creatures  squawking  and 
scurrying  to  right  and  left,  while  our  friend  chanti- 
cleer crows  defiance  at  the  intruder  from  the  top 
of  a  steaming  compost  heap  beside  the  road.  A 
small  cart  rattles  past,  jointly  drawn  by  a  panting, 
shaggy  dog,  and  its  youthful  master  clad  in  a 
checked  gingham  pinafore. 

The  village  is  awake  and  alive  again,  for  it  is 
May  and  morning  in  Mirabelle ! 


CHAPTER  I 

DANIEL  AND  FAITH 

"  THY  decision  I  cannot  but  commend,  Daniel. 
But  I  fear  that  thou  hast  made  it,  moved  not 
merely  by  ideals  of  self-sacrifice  and  the  thought 
of  succoring  the  distressed  and  needy,  but  rather 
because  the  germ  of  adventure  lurks  in  thy  youth- 
ful blood.  Nay,  do  not  protest ;  I  have  known  thee 
since  thou  wert  a  baby,  and  although  we  all  love 
thee  as  we  loved  thy  father  and  mother,  thy  way- 
wardness hath  tried  me  often." 

"  I  know,  and  am  sorry  that  it  has  been  so. 
Truly  I  have  tried  to  do  as  you  wanted  —  to  do 
right,  foster-father.  But  the  world  changes  and 
customs  with  it,  you  know,  and  when  a  man  is 
young  .  .  .  ' 

'  The  Truth  never  changes,  Daniel.  Our  fore- 
fathers pointed  out  the  straight  and  narrow  path 
which  should  be  trod  by  those  who  bear  the  name 
of  '  Friends,'  and  we  have  followed  it  in  honor  and 
contentment.  But  I  had  not  meant  to  speak  at  this 
time  of  the  things  that  are  past,  but  rather  of 

12 


DANIEL  AND  FAITH  13 

thy  future,  although  it  has  troubled  me  that  thou, 
with  many  others  of  the  newer  generation,  hast 
chosen  to  forget  the  plain  speech  of  thy  people  —  I 
fear  that  thy  years  and  new  friends  at  the  great 
University  have  not  benefited  thee  in  the  things 
which  count,  the  Eternal  things.  It  is  a  small  mat- 
ter, perhaps,  and  what  disturbs  me  more  is  the  fact 
that  I  know  thou  hast  ever  had  a  lusty  body  and  a 
wayward  mind,  and  hast  yet  to  learn  the  truth  of 
the  words,  '  better  is  he  that  ruleth  his  spirit  than 
he  that  taketh  a  city.'  Truly  I  fear  for  thee,  sud- 
denly thrust  amid  the  temptations  of  a  strange  land, 
the  ways  of  which,  I  am  told,  differ  so  greatly 
from  those  of  our  sect. 

"  But  there,  perhaps  I  am  too  harsh  in  my  judge- 
ments, forgetful  of  the  injunction  of  our  Master. 
Better  let  me  remind  you  that  the  Lord,  in  His 
infinite  wisdom,  never  lays  upon  our  souls  burdens 
heavier  than  we  can  bear,  nor  sends  temptations 
beyond  our  power  to  resist.  No,  I  do  not  wish  to 
dissuade  thee,  although  we  shall  all  miss  thee 
sorely.  The  labor  is  worthy;  see  that  thou  art 
worthy,  likewise.  It  is  fitting  that  we  remain  for 
a  little  while  in  silent  communion  with  the  Divine 
Spirit." 

The  Elder,  his  wife  and  the  girl  closed  their 
eyes  in  prayer. 


14    THE  MAID  OF  MIRABELLE 

Daniel  Steele,  Friend,  had  been  one  of  such  a 
gn/up  times  innumerable.  Yet  to-night  he  expe- 
rienced a  sense  of  remoteness,  of  unreality,  as  his 
warm  gray  eyes  took  in  the  familiar  picture  from 
beneath  their  half-closed  lids;  the  modest  sitting- 
room,  plainly  furnished  and  expressive  of  its  oc- 
cupants' neutral-colored  life;  the  calm,  patriarchal 
appearance  of  the  Elder  in  his  butternut  brown 
homespun  suit,  his  knotted  hands  devoutly  clasped; 
the  serenely  sweet  face  of  his  wife,  who,  in  her 
Quaker  gray  and  white,  brought  the  thought  of  a 
mother  dove;  and  the  demure,  flower-like  counte- 
nance of  their  daughter. 

The  Elder  had  read  the  younger  man's  character 
aright,  but  he  would  have  been  even  more  seriously 
disturbed  if  he  had  known  how  hotly  youth  burned 
beneath  the  trained  impassiveness  of  the  one  who 
stood  before  him,  straight  and  strong  and  with 
something  of  the  muscular  tension  of  an  eager 
thoroughbred  firmly  held  in  check.  The  truth  was 
that  an  unusually  keen  imagination  had  supplied 
for  a  highly  sensitized  soul  and  energetic  body,  out- 
lets which  had  otherwise  been  denied  him  in  the 
small  community  of  Friends  where  he  had  been 
born  and  raised.  Even  when  he  was  a  child,  it  had 
aided  him  to  devise  games  and  play  pranks  that  had 
at  first  disturbed  the  family  circle,  and  then  out- 


DANIEL  AND  FAITH  15 

raged  the  little  village.  But  an  innate  love  of  truth 
and  fair  play,  with  the  strict  training  to  which  he 
had  been  subjected  in  the  foster  home  where  he  had 
been  brought  in  orphaned  babyhood,  had  enabled 
him  to  curb,  if  not  to  destroy,  the  monster  —  as 
others  regarded  it. 

When  the  world  went  mad,  however,  it  had 
strained  at  its  bonds  until  they  nearly  broke,  and 
only  the  real  love  which  he  bore  for  his  foster- 
family,  and  the  inertia  of  habitude,  prevented  Dan- 
iel from  violating  the  faith  of  his  forefathers  and 
becoming  a  man  of  war,  as  he  dreamed  of  the 
struggle  across  the  sea.  These  two  things,  rather 
than  obedience  to  the  sixth  commandment,  had  held 
his  eager  soul  in  check.  And  now  Opportunity  had 
stretched  forth  her  hand  and  opened  the  gate  be- 
fore him.  True  to  their  precepts  and  their  name, 
the  American  Society  of  Friends  had  from  the  out- 
set given  of  their  best  in  assisting  to  succor  the 
widows,  the  fatherless  and  the  homeless  in  stricken 
France,  affiliated  with  those  who  labored  in  the 
same  spirit  of  sacrifice  beneath  the  far-flung  banner 
of  the  Red  Cross.  The  cry  had  now  come  from  the 
War  Relief  Service  Committee  for  new  volunteers, 
young,  strong,  fearless  in  the  face  of  danger;  and 
all  that  was  manly,  as  well  as  all  that  was  romantic, 
in  Daniel's  nature,  had  answered. 


Yes,  the  Elder  had  truly  understood  some  of  his 
foster-son's  thoughts,  for,  even  as  he  uttered  his 
calm  words  of  admonition,  Daniel's  imagination 
was  supplying  a  background  made  up  of  the  dis- 
tant roar  and  rumble  of  battle,  the  excited  clamor 
of  fighting  men,  and  the  cries  and  groans  of 
the  wounded.  Now  they  seemed  to  swell  through 
the  silence  of  the  room,  beating  in  upon  his  brain 
and  making  his  heart  pulsate  more  swiftly.  At  last 
he  was  going  onto  the  field  of  the  mighty  conflict. 
True,  it  was  not  to  bear  arms  against  the  foe  of  his 
country  and  of  mankind  —  his  faith  forbade  —  but 
it  would  be  the  battlefield,  nevertheless,  and  in  a 
land  filled  with  the  glamor  of  brave  romance,  no 
greater  in  the  heyday  of  her  power  than  now,  in 
the  hour  of  her  direst  need. 

The  sight  of  his  foster-father  and  mother,  so 
peaceful  in  prayer,  was  not  enough  to  bring  his 
winging  thoughts  home,  but  when  his  half-hidden 
glance  passed  to  the  face  of  his  childhood's  play- 
mate, the  imagined  turmoil  of  war  died  slowly 
away.  There  came  a  swift  tightening  in  the  mus- 
cles of  his  throat.  Daniel  had  not  been  praying 
before;  perhaps  he  did  not  consciously  pray  now, 
but  there  was  something  in  the  protecting  way  that 
he  thought  of  her,  and  wished  for  her  happiness 
until  the  wish  hurt,  that  was  akin  to  prayer.  Never, 


DANIEL  AKD  FAITH  17 

previously,  had  she  seemed  so  like  a  sweet  bud 
which  one  instinctively  desires  to  shield  from  the 
world's  chill  blasts,  and  there  grew  in  his  mind  a 
keen  regret  for  the  many  times  that  he,  though 
certainly  caring  for  her  in  a  boyish  way,  had 
teased  her  shamefully,  made  her  the  ever-uncom- 
plaining victim  of  his  wild  games. 

The  words  of  mild  reproof  which  the  Elder  had 
spoken  had  left  him  cold,  but  the  look  on  the  girl's 
face  stirred  him  to  a  realization  of  how  far  short 
of  her  standard  he  fell,  and  of  the  teachings  which 
had  been  instilled  into  both  from  babyhood.  It 
was  for  an  instant  as  though  he  had  been  brought 
unexpectedly  face  to  face  with  his  soul,  stripped 
naked  of  its  cloak  of  custom  and  religious  conven- 
tion. Daniel  stood  at  last  ashamed.  His  eyes 
closed  and  his  strong  hands  clinched  in  the  earnest- 
ness of  his  unworded  petition  that  he  might,  in- 
deed, be  granted  that  strength  which  he  knew  that 
the  others  were  then  praying  for  him  to  receive  — 
the  strength  to  be  true  to  the  best  in  himself;  in 
thought  and  deed  as  well  as  word  worthy  the  name 
of  "Friend." 

"  Faith !  "  The  single  word  formed  itself  on 
his  lips.  His  eyes  opened  once  more,  to  find  them- 
selves still  fastened  on  the  girl-woman  who  bore 
it  as  her  Christian  name.  Daniel's  heart  stopped, 


18    THE  MAID  OF  MIRABELLE 

and  beat  anew  more  rapidly.  Did  she  really  care 
so  much,  this  little  Faith  who  had  always  been  to 
him  merely  a  foster-sister,  an  ever-present  fact  and 
therefore  outside  his  romantic  imaginings?  A 
single  tear  had  slowly  gathered  under  one  tightly 
closed  lid  and  was  trembling  there,  like  a  dew-drop 
on  the  edge  of  a  white  rose  petal. 

The  tear  started  down  the  smooth  contour  of  her 
unnaturally  pale  cheek,  to  be  hastily  brushed  away 
by  one  small  hand,  that  at  once  returned  to  clasp  its 
mate  on  her  lap. 

The  Elder  and  his  wife,  a  soft  gray  shadow, 
arose  and  passed  from  the  room,  after  the  former 
had  paused  to  clasp  Daniel's  hand  firmly,  and  the 
latter  to  press  a  motherly  kiss  on  his  cheek  as  she 
echoed  her  husband's,  "  God  bless  thee,  my  son." 

Faith  arose  also,  but  stood  quietly,  with  down- 
cast eyes,  as  Daniel  reached  out,  caught  one  of  her 
hands  and  held  it  tight.  The  spotless  kerchief  of 
white  lawn  which  covered  her  throat  all  save  a 
small  V  of  smooth  flesh,  rose  and  fell  rapidly  on 
her  young  bosom.  "  How  very  sweet  and  pure  she 
is!"  thought  the  man.  "What  beautiful  hair!" 
With  a  sense  of  surprise  he  noticed  for  the  first 
time  how  truly  golden  were  the  glints  which  it 
gave  forth  as  the  subdued  light  from  the  lamp  fell 
on  the  strands  which  persisted  in  rippling,  although 


DANIEL  AND  FAITH  19 

conscientiously  smoothed  down  and  drawn  tightly 
back  into  a  plain  knot. 

"  You  know  that  I  have  got  to  go  ...  dear," 
the  last  word  came  haltingly.  "  I  have  agreed,  and 
it  is  my  duty  now." 

"  I  know.  Yes,  truly  it  is  thy  duty.  Nor  would 
I  have  thee  stay,  when  the  poor  people  across  the 
sea  so  need  what  little  we  can  do,  and  give,  to  help 
them  in  their  affliction.  But  oh,  be  careful  .  .  . 
and  come  back  to  us,  Daniel,  for  as  father  hath 
said  and  thou  knowest,  we  love  thee  dearly." 

"  Come  back?  Of  course  I  shall,"  he  responded 
with  an  ineffective  effort  to  laugh  naturally. 

"  The  .  .  .  the  French  girls.  They  will  not 
make  thee  want  to  stay  there?  It  is  said  that  they 
are  very  beautiful." 

This  time  he  laughed  boisterously  at  the  idea. 

"  And  Daniel,  thou  wilt  be  true  ...  to  thy 
faith?  That  is  of  all  the  most  important,  and  if 
thou  wert  not  true,  I  do  not  know  as  I  could  for- 
give thee." 

"Yes,  I  will  be  true  ...  to  my  Faith."  He 
emphasized  the  word,  meaningly,  and  it  did  not 
pass  unnoticed,  as  the  richer  color  in  her  cheeks  in- 
dicated. But  when  he  would  have  drawn  her  close 
she  broke  away,  and,  with  a  stifled  sound  like  a 
sob,  ran  from  the  room. 


20     THE  MAID  OF  MIRABELLE 

For  some  moments  Daniel  stood  as  she  had  left 
him,  immobile,  but  his  mind  was  active  with  won- 
derful new  thoughts.  A  clear  inner  light  was 
dawning  upon,  and  then  fairly  dazzling  it.  Faith 
cared  for  him  —  in  a  manner  and  to  a  degree  that 
he  had  never  even  dreamed  of!  And  he?  He 
knew  of  a  sudden  that  he  loved  her,  no  longer  with 
the  old  boyish  affection  of  brother  for  sister,  but 
as  a  man  loves  his  mate.  Many  half^remembered 
things,  theretofore  barely  considered  and  taken  as  a 
matter  of  course,  crowded  back  into  his  recollection ; 
how  completely  the  little  family,  himself  included, 
had  grown  to  depend  upon  her  quiet  efficiency  in 
the  home,  of  which,  for  all  her  youth,  she  was  the 
true  center;  how  firm  a  will  in  right-doing  lay  be- 
neath her  sweetness,  how  full  a  share  of  strength 
beneath  her  simplicity.  There  was  no  neighbor  but 
sent  for  her  in  time  of  sickness,  there  was  no  child 
in  the  little  village  but  worshipped  her  and  clung 
to  her  when  she  appeared.  Even  the  little  human- 
izing touches  in  her  nature  —  the  way  she  bent  the 
iron  will  of  her  unsuspecting  father,  and  brought 
him  unconsciously  to  show  to  the  frailties  of  others 
a  charitableness  foreign  to  his  own  nature  —  all 
came  to  his  mind  with  new  appeal. 

His  heart,  his  arms,  his  throat  ached  for  her, 
and  if  the  repressive  training  of  twenty-four  years 


DANIEL  AND  FAITH  21 

had  not  held  him  sternly  in  check  he  would  have 
hastened  to  follow  her  even  into  the  room  which, 
until  that  moment,  had  meant  nothing  to  him,  but 
had  suddenly  become  invested  with  sanctity.  In 
the  dark  he  climbed  the  straight,  narrow,  creaking 
stairs,  and  briefly  paused  before  the  closed  door 
which  had  become  a  portal  to  Paradise.  His 
thoughts  were  in  a  ferment,  with  love  the  leaven. 
New  hopes,  new  desires  mingled  with  the  dreams 
which  had  been  his  and  so  attractive  but  a  short 
time  before,  and  almost  blotted  them  out. 

Was  it  his  imagination,  or  did  he  really  hear  the 
sound  of  smothered  sobbing  within  the  room,  no 
light  from  which  showed  through  the  crack  beneath 
the  door  to-night? 

Daniel  turned  slowly  toward  his  own  small 
chamber  and  there  paused  again.  Then  he  straight- 
ened his  broad  shoulders  almost  aggressively, 
strode  forward  and  dragged  his  one  valise  from 
beneath  the  bed.  The  die  was  cast ;  but  the  future 
had  changed  from  beckoning  adventure  into  stern 
duty.  Hands  that  worked  with  almost  feverish 
haste  threw  the  garments  of  his  limited  wardrobe 
into  the  bag;  then  they  began  to  move  more  and 
more  slowly  until  they  stopped,  holding  a  corres- 
pondence portfolio  which  he  had  used  at  the  Uni- 
versity. 


22     THE  MAID  OF  MIRABELLE 

"  I've  got  to  go  forward,  but  I  just  can't  go 
now  .  .  .  without  knowing  for  sure  .  .  .  '  his 
lips  half  spoke  the  words. 

His  actions  became  feverish  once  more  as  he 
seized  a  pen  and  sheet  of  paper,  but  there  fol- 
lowed many  long  pauses  before  the  brief  note  was 
finished.  It  ran :  "  Faith,  dearest.  I  cannot  go 
away  without  telling  you  that  I  love  you,  not  as  a 
brother  his  sister,  but  as  a  man  does  a  woman  who 
is  nothing  to  him  —  and  everything.  Can  I  dare 
think  that  perhaps  you  care  for  me  a  little  in  the 
same  way?  If  I  could  only  be  sure  of  that,  I 
would  go  abroad  as  must  a  sailor  who  knows  that 
after  the  voyage,  full  of  possible  perils  and  storms, 
a  calm  harbor  awaits  his  return.  I  long  to  hear 
you  tell  me  so,  yet  I  dare  not  wait  to  see  and  to 
ask  you  to-morrow,  for  I  know  that  if  my  wish 
should  come  true  I  might  not  be  strong  enough  of 
will  to  go  at  all.  And  I  must  go,  now.  If  what 
I  hope,  but  do  not  deserve,  is  really  so,  please, 
please,  telegraph  the  single  word  '  yes '  to  the  for- 
warding address  in  Philadelphia,  which  you  have. 
If  I  am  presumptuous  and  wrong,  be  assured  that  I 
shall  understand,  and  love  you  none  the  less.  But 
if  the  answer  is  the  one  I  hope  for,  I  shall  go  over- 
seas stronger  in  every  purpose  and  always  true  to 
my  Faith,  personified.  Daniel." 


DANIEL  AND  FAITH  23 

With  the  folded  note  in  his  hand,  he  crept  once 
more  to  the  closed  door.  No  sound  from  within 
was  now  audible,  and  he  visioned  the  girl  as  he 
had  often  seen  her  when  she  was  a  child  —  one 
white  arm  in  its  severely  plain  long-sleeved  night- 
gown under  her  head,  and  the  hand  hidden  amid  a 
tumble  of  unbound  hair  falling  in  a  golden  cascade, 
as  nature  had  meant  it  to,  over  the  pillow.  Cau- 
tiously he  slipped  the  letter  beneath  the  door  and 
stole  back  to  his  own  room.  But  it  was  not  to 
sleep,  although  he  threw  himself,  fully  dressed, 
upon  the  quilted  cover  of  the  bed.  The  first  pale 
flush  of  dawn,  supplanting  the  paler  moonlight, 
found  him  with  eyes  still  wide  awake. 

Daniel  arose,  made  his  few  final  preparations  in 
silence,  and  hastily  tiptoed  down  the  hall  and  stair- 
way, with  just  one  lingering  glance  at  Faith's  door, 
from  beneath  which  still  appeared  a  tiny  corner  of 
white.  It  was  yet  an  hour  to  train  time,  but  he  was 
urged  to  haste  by  the  sounds  of  movement  within 
his  foster-parents'  room.  True,  they  might  feel 
disappointment  if  he  left  without  their  bidding  him 
a  last  farewell,  but  Faith  would  surely  be  awak- 
ened, and  he  was  suddenly  panic-stricken  at  the 
thought  of  meeting  her  after  she  had  seen  his  note, 
and,  perhaps,  being  forced  to  read  in  her  face  some- 
thing which  he  could  not  bear  to  see,  and  she  could 


24    THE  MAID  OF  MIRABELKB 

not  dissimulate.  He  fairly  ran  from  the  little 
porch. 

Through  the  sleeping  village  he  walked  with  long 
strides,  but  stopped  on  the  outskirts  to  look  back 
just  once.  A  soft  gray  mist  lovingly  enveloped  his 
boyhood  home  and  melted  into  the  calm  and  cloud- 
less western  sky.  Then  he  turned  and  faced  the 
distant  east.  The  sun  of  a  new  day  was  on  the 
verge  of  rising;  like  an  unseen  artist  with  an  in- 
visible brush  it  was  painting  the  broken  clouds 
along  the  horizon  in  brilliant,  angry  colors. 

At  last  the  train  that  should  bear  him  away  on 
the  first  step  into  the  future  appeared  in  the  dis- 
tance, heralded  by  a  streamer  of  black.  It  left  him, 
a  few  hours  later,  in  the  great  city,  whence  he  was 
to  embark  for  France.  But,  long  before  he  reached 
the  headquarters  of  the  American  Friends  Service 
Committee,  a  message  had  arrived  for  him,  over 
the  singing  wire.  It  contained  only  one  word,  and 
that  word  was  —  "  Yes." 


CHAPTER  II 

JOAN 

"  LOOK,  my  mother,  little  Pierre  has  a  new 
soldier's  cap." 

Joan  laughed  merrily  as  she  pointed  through  the 
wide  open  window.  But  the  laugh  ended  in  a  sigh, 
and  an  expression  of  tender  pity  crept  into  her 
brown  eyes  as  they  returned  to  the  embroidery  in 
her  lap.  Indeed,  the  six-year-old,  who  was  march- 
ing so  proudly  down  the  road  —  his  small  sabots 
clattering  on  the  cobblestones,  his  sturdy  legs 
bare,  his  little  jacket  and  pantaloons  patched  and 
frayed  and  enveloped  in  a  patched  pinafore,  whose 
blue  checks  had  nearly  faded  away  from  frequent 
washings,  and  his  wooden  gun  held  high  on  the 
shoulder  after  the  prescribed  manner  of  the  French 
manual  of  arms  —  presented  a  picture  at  once  com- 
ical and  pathetic.  For  the  new  peaked  rabbit  cap 
of  horizon  blue,  worn  with  such  pride,  was  so 
large  as  nearly  to  mask  the  chubby  baby  face  be- 
neath it. 

"  Poor  little  one,"  she  half  whispered.  "  Oh,  if 
26 


26    THE  MAID  OF  MIRABELLE 

only  I  oould  do  more  for  them  all,  our  orphaned 
children!  Perhaps  it  is  true  that  the  cruel  world 
does  not  owe  a  living  to  its  grown-up  people,  but 
surely  its  babies  deserve  something  better  than  the 
lot  of  refugees  —  fatherless,  motherless,  homeless, 
and  robbed  of  all  the  joys  of  childhood.  Dieu* 
how  I  hate  the  Boche;  how  I  wish  that  I  could 
myself  fight  against  them!"  Only  you  who  have 
heard  a  woman  of  France  speak  the  word, 
"Boche"  can  know  the  full  measure  of  loathing 
and  obloquy  contained  in  it. 

"  There,  there,  Joan,"  responded  her  mother,  as 
she  bent  her  thin  back  the  better  to -bite  off  a 
thread  from  the  dainty  chemise  which  she  was  em- 
broidering, "  have  we  not  troubles  enough  with- 
out thinking  of  other  things  that  thinking  cannot 
help?  Thou  canst  not  fight  against  them,  as  thou 
well  knowest,  and  is  it  not  enough  that  thy  only 
brother  is  in  the  army?  Come,  thou  art  doing 

1  The  author  has  in  this  story  refrained  from  attempt- 
ing to  render  literally  into  English  the  idioms  of  the  French 
language,  nor  does  he  introduce  French  words,  except  in  a 
few  cases  where  a  typical  expression  or  exclamation  is  in- 
capable of  translation  —  such  as  the  ejaculation  " Dieu,"  which 
is  by  no  means  a  profanity  in  French.  He  has,  however,  re- 
tained the  use  of  the  second  person  singular,  so  quaint  to  our 
ears,  since  it  has  become  obsolete  in  English  except  in  the 
*  plain  language  "  of  the  Friends,  for  it  is  still  a  part  of  the 
French  tongue  and  invariably  used  between  relations  and  in- 
timate friends. 

THE  EDITOR. 


JOAN  27 

more  than  thy  share,  already,  to  help  the  little  ones 
who  have  been  sent  to  Mirabelle  for  refuge." 

For  a  moment  there  was  no  sound  in  the  tiny 
bare-walled  room  which  served  three  generations  as 
a  place  to  cook  and  eat  and  work,  save  for  the  con- 
tented purring  of  Mimite  beneath  the  square  of 
fine  linen  on  Joan's  lap,  and  the  faint  sounds  from 
overhead,  where  her  younger  sister,  Suzette,  was 
thumping  up  the  fluffy  feather  counterpanes  for  the 
beds.  Then  the  little  mother  readjusted  her  steel- 
rimmed  spectacles  before  her  squinting  eyes,  re- 
threaded  her  needle,  and,  as  her  flying  fingers  con- 
tinued the  design,  said,  "  I  have  meant  to  speak  to 
thee  before  regarding  this  matter,  Joan,  and  to  tell 
thee  that  I  know  of  the  bread  and  sugar  which  thou 
hast  secretly  given  to  the  little  Pierre,  when  I  was 
not  present  to  hinder  thee.  The  bread  I  do  not 
begrudge,  if  he  is  hungry  —  although  it  speaks  ill 
for  the  generosity  of  neighbor  Lefevre  —  but  thou 
knowest  how  well  nigh  impossible  it  is  to  obtain 
even  a  little  livre  of  sugar;  and  has  not  the  Mayor 
told  thy  father  that  no  new  cards  for  it  are  to  be 
given  out  next  month  ?  " 

"  I  know.  But  surely,  mother,  I  can  do  as  I 
wish  with  my  own  share,  and  if  I  like  my  coffee  as 
well  unsweetened  .  ,  .  ' 

"  '  Like  it  as  well  unsweetened  '  —  listen  to  her ! 


28     THE  MAID  OF  MIRABELLE 

Since  when  hast  thou  liked  it  unsweetened,  then? 
It  is  since  that  Pierre  and  his  sisters  came  from 
Verdun.  Dost  thou  not  remember  how  I  used  to 
say  to  thee  daily,  that  thy  blood  would  turn  to 
sugar  and  water  if  thou  drank  thy  coffee  so  sweet?" 

"  But  he  is  only  a  child,  my  mother ;  and  chil- 
dren 

"  He  is  French,  and  the  young  as  well  as  the  old 
must  learn  to  sacrifice,  for  only  so  can  we  con- 
quer." 

"  '  Must  learn  ?  '  Have  they  not  learned  it  long 
ago?  Behold  the  grandmother  there!"  With  a 
passionate  Latin  sweep  of  her  shapely  arm,  Joan 
again  pointed  out  of  the  window  to  indicate  the 
bowed  form  of  Madame  le  Jeune,  who  was  slowly 
entering  the  yard,  pushing  before  her  a  hand-barrow 
of  home  manufacture,  piled  with  stumps  and  heavy 
tree  branches.  Leaning  partly  out  over  the  stone 
sill,  she  continued,  "  My  faith,  such  a  great  load, 
grandmother!  Is  not  then  seventy  years  too  old 
for  a  woman  to  bear  a  burden  so  heavy?  " 

The  old  woman  cackled  toothlessly,  as  she  wiped 
the  sweat  from  a  face  deeply  graven  with  lines, 
but  still  rosy,  "  *  To  bear  such  a  burden ! '  she  says. 
Did  I  not  bear  thy  father,  and  he  has  for  fifty 
years  been  so  great  a  burden  that  this  one  seems  as 
nothing." 


JOAN  29 

There  was  an  answering  laugh  from  above  her 
head,  where  her  son,  almost  as  bent  and  wrinkled 
as  she,  from  his  forty  years  of  ceaseless  labor  in 
the  cotton  mill  and  garden  plot,  was  nailing  a  va- 
grant limb  of  the  pear  tree  to  the  cement  wall. 

"  Waste  no  breath  in  sympathy  for  thy  grandam, 
Joan.  Old  she  may  be,  but  her  strength  is  greater 
than  thine  own.  By  the  good  Lord,  I  had  almost 
thought  that  France  had  forgotten  how  to  breed 
strong  men  and  women,  until  this  war  showed  us 
that  the  blood  of  those  who  conquered  nearly  all 
the  world  for  the  Little  Corporal,  had  not  ceased  to 
run  in  our  veins." 

"If  thy  generation  had  raised  real  families,  as 
do  the  beasts  of  Germans,  there  would,  perchance, 
have  been  no  war,"  answered  his  mother,  tartly, 
whereupon  her  daughter-in-law  spoke  from  within 
the  room,  "  And  art  thou  not  then  content  to  have 
one  grandson  in  the  battle?  I  thank  the  dear  God 
that  there  are  no  more." 

"  Mother! "  cried  Joan,  and  added  —  as  have  in- 
numerable maids  throughout  the  ages  —  "  Oh,  why 
wasn't  /  born  a  man!  " 

"If  thou  wouldst  help  to  do  a  man's  work,  lay 
aside  thy  broderie  and  hasten  to  the  store  to  buy 
a  few  more  nails  for  me,"  called  her  father. 

The   girl    willingly   laid    her   task    aside,    arose 


30     THE  MAID  OF  MIRABELLE 

from  the  low,  straight-backed  wooden  chair,  shook 
a  few  threads  from  her  full  skirt,  tossed  back  her 
head  to  readjust  one  of  the  long,  thick  braids  of 
hair  which  had  fallen  forward  over  her  breast,  and 
started  blithely  out.  In  the  narrow  paved  entryway 
she  paused  long  enough  to  slide  her  slippered  feet 
into  the  carved  sabots,,  for  it  had  rained  during  the 
night.  Laughingly,  she  shooed  before  her  out  of 
the  door  a  wildly  squawking,  much  flustered  hen 
which  had  been  caught  between  the  fence  of  the 
little  front  yard  and  grandmother  le  Jeune  with  her 
load  of  wood,  and  fled  down  the  entry  for  refuge. 
The  commotion  drew  the  attention  of  Pierre  across 
the  road,  and  he  broke  off  his  self-appointed  guard 
mount  to  run  toward  her,  crying  in  a  childish 
treble,  "  Good  morning,  my  Joan." 

"  Halt!  Salute t "  The  commands  rang  out  in 
the  girl's  clear  voice.  To  rigid  attention  came  the 
small  form,  the  lathe  gun  slid  down  into  the  pre- 
scribed position  at  his  right  side,  his  grimy  left 
hand  snapped  up  across  his  pinafore.  Joan's  own 
arm  swung  smartly  up,  elbow  raised,  hand  to  her 
forehead,  palm  outward. 

"  On  the  shoulder.     Arms!  " 

Back  to  its  former  position  went  the  weapon  of 
wood,  and  straightway  a  sticky  hand  was  snuggled 
into  one  of  hers,  as  the  small  soldier  of  France 


JOAN  31 

glanced  up  sidewise  from  beneath  the  almost  ex- 
tinguishing cap,  with  a  look  half  roguish,  half 
pleading. 

"  Is  it  that  thou  wouldst  accompany  me  to  the 
store,  my  little  one?  Forward,  then.  '  Marchons! 
marchons!  qu'un  sang  impur  dbreuve  nos  sillons.' '' 
Pierre's  piping  treble  joined  with  Joan's  sweet  so- 
prano in  the  stirring  chorus  of  the  Marseillaise, 
as  they  stepped  off  together. 

"  Now  sing  '  Vive  le  Pinard'  *  I  like  it  better, 
Joan." 

"  Is  it  then  the  song,  or  the  wine  itself  that  thou 
lovest  better,  mischievous  one?"  teased  the  girl. 

"  The  song,  the  song.  Have  not  the  poilus  taught 
me  to  sing  it  all  through?  " 

"  No,  I  shall  not  sing  at  all.     I  am  very  sad." 

"  My  Joan  is  sad?    But  why?  " 

"  Because  her  Pierre  did  not  go  to  the  school 
this  morning  with  his  sisters.  Thou  promised 
me  ..." 

"  To  school !  I  am  a  soldier,  and  soldiers  never 
go  to  school."  The  little  hand  was  hastily  with- 
drawn from  her  clasp,  and  the  diminutive  figure 
again  assumed  a  martial  mien. 

"  How  many  soldiers,  now  in  the  awful  trenches, 

*" Pinard."  Soldier  slang  for  the.  vin  ordinaire  —  cheap 
red  wine. 


32    THE  MAID  OF  MIRABELLE 

wish  that  they  were  back  in  school  to-day,"  whis- 
pered the  girl,  as  a  heavier  boom  from  the  North- 
east swiftly  carried  her  thoughts  to  the  front  where 
her  own  brother  —  her  junior  by  a  year  —  was 
helping  to  hold  the  long,  thin  line  flung  across 
France,  a  barrier  which  might  bend,  but  never 
really  break,  before  the  onslaught  of  the  Boche. 

"  But  come.  Tell  me  where  thou  hast  found  thy 
fine  new  cap." 

The  boy  pushed  it  up  from  one  eye,  and 
answered,  "  It  is  the  cap  of  my  brother  Jean, 
a  truly  soldier.  He  is  at  our  house  on  permission. 
It  is  late  last  night  that  he  arrived  to  spend  a  whole 
day  with  me,  Marie  and  Georgette;  but  he  is  in- 
stead spending  it  in  bed,  I  think,  for  he  is  not  yet 
awake.  He  is  very  lazy,  is  he  not,  Joan  ?  " 

"  Perhaps  he  is  very  tired,  poor  lad.  If  he  is 
hungry,  too,  when  he  awakes,  and  thou  wilt  bring 
him  to  our  house,  I  .  .  .  ' 

"  But  he  is  not  hungry,  ever.  Is  he  not  the  or- 
derly to  M.  le  Lieutenant,  and  so  has  always  plenty 
to  eat?  I  think  that  I  shall  be  an  officer,  and  not 
a  poilu,  when  I  grow  up,  so  that  I  may  have  some- 
thing to  eat  ...  always,"  mused  the  boy. 

The  girl  and  her  military  escort  turned  the  cor- 
ner at  the  foot  of  the  little  hill,  and  stepped  down 
into  a  low  doorway  which  led  into  a  shadowy  shop, 


JOAN  33 

converted  out  of  one  room  of  a  dwelling  house. 
A  widely  varied,  if  meager,  assortment  of  groceries, 
dry  goods,  and  hardware,  together  with  the  inevi- 
table cask  of  cheap  red  wine,  cluttered  the  single 
counter  and  uneven  shelves.  As  they  entered,  to 
the  jangling  of  a  bell  in  the  room  beyond,  a  wo- 
man, young  as  to  figure  but  sadly  old  of  face,  and 
clad  in  the  black  that  proclaimed  her  a  widow  al- 
most as  soon  as  wife,  came  to  greet  them,  still 
carrying  in  her  hand  her  workbasket  filled  with 
half-embroidered  linen.  Her  patient,  tired  eyes, 
dulled  with  pain,  peered  near-sightedly  into  the 
semi-darkness. 

"  Good-day,  Mile.  Joan.  What  is  it  that  you  de- 
sire this  morning?" 

"  A  few  nails,  like  this  one,"  answered  her  cus- 
tomer. "  How  much  do  they  cost  by  the  livre 
now?  Two  francs?  But  are  they  not  very  dear, 
Madame  ?  " 

"  Will  Mademoiselle  have  the  kindness  to  tell  me 
what  is  not  very  dear  in  France,  now?  Especially 
the  things  made  of  iron  and  of  steel,  every  gram 
of  which  we  need  for  the  big  guns  and  their  beauti- 
ful shells  with  which  to  kill  the  Boche"  A  flash 
of  hatred  shone  from  her  eyes,  but  faded  quickly. 
"And  will  that  be  all?  Thank  you.  Good-day, 
Mademoiselle." 


34     THE  MAID  OF  MIRABELLE 

"  Good-day,  Madame." 

The  two  comrades  started  to  climb  the  slight  as- 
cent, Pierre's  short  legs  striving  valiantly,  but  in 
vain,  to  match  their  stride  with  Joan's  free  steps, 
and  the  small  soldier's  hand  again  sought  the  pro- 
tecting comfort  of  her  firm  clasp  when  a  mild  man- 
nered cow  strolled  leisurely  in  front  of  them,  to 
quench  her  thirst  at  a  stone  trough  by  the  way- 
side. 

"  Look,  look !  It  is  my  Jean.  He  is  at  last 
awake,"  the  child  cried,  as  they  neared  their  des- 
tination, and  Joan's  eyes  fell  upon  a  tall,  straight 
figure  in  battle  blue,  standing  before  the  door  of 
the  house  almost  opposite  her  own.  He  was  bare- 
headed, for  obvious  reasons,  and  his  close-clipped 
brown  hair  glistened  as  though  his  head  had  just 
come  out  of  a  pail  of  water  —  as,  indeed,  it  had. 
Sleepiness,  and  appreciation  of  the  picture  before 
him,  struggled  for  supremacy  in  the  young  man's 
blue  eyes,  but  there  was  no  appearance  of  war- 
weariness  in  the  healthy  red  glow  beneath  the  tan 
of  his  cheeks,  or  in  the  firm,  well  modeled  lips  that 
smiled  gaily  beneath  the  small,  blond  mustache. 

"  He  is  not  really  handsome,  perhaps,"  thought 
Joan,  woman-like.  "  But  I  am  sure  that  he  is 
pleasant  and  very,  very  brave.  I  know  that  I 
should  like  him."  Her  eyes  traveled  with  undis- 


JOAN  35 

guised  approval  over  his  well-knit  body  in  its 
belted  tunic,  and  the  straight,  muscular  legs  which 
appeared  to  full  advantage  in  their  tightly  wrapped 
spirals  of  blue  cloth,  even  if  the  clumsy  black  shoes 
below  were  not  things  of  beauty. 

"  Thief !  "  called  the  man,  as  he  caught  sight  of 
the  missing  cap  atop  the  head  of  his  little  brother, 
and  took  a  purposeful  stride  towards  him. 

"  Run!  "  laughed  Joan,  on  an  impulse  born  of  the 
merry  morning  and  her  own  overflowing  youth, 
and  as  the  child  promptly  obeyed  she  covered  his 
retreat  by  stepping  in  front  of  the  pursuer.  Jean 
prevented  full  collision  by  dodging,  but  his  arm 
knocked  the  paper  of  nails  from  her  hand,  and  its 
contents  strewed  the  road.  Simultaneously  both 
bent  to  recover  them,  a  wayward  strand  of  the 
girl's  long  hair  looped  itself  firmly  around  one  of 
the  small  steel  buttons,  stamped  with  crossed  can- 
non, which  adorned  his  shoulder  strap;  she  gave  a 
little  cry,  more  of  surprise  than  pain ;  a  ^og  started 
to  bark  loudly,  which  sent  the  flock  of  silly  hens 
flying  hither  and  yon  once  more. 

"  A  thousand  pardons,  Mademoiselle."  Jean  had 
finally  succeeded  in  disentangling  the  button,  al- 
though a  cynical  onlooker  might  have  accused  him 
of  making  haste  slowly.  "  But  I  am  awkward 
this  morning." 


36     THE  MAID  OF  MIRABELLE 

"  Not  at  all,  Monsieur;  it  was  I."  She  was  even 
rosier  of  cheek  than  was  her  wont,  and  the  mist  of 
pain-drawn  tears  made  her  deep  brown  eyes  sparkle 
bewitchingly,  a  fact  that  was  not  lost  on  the  other. 
"  Oh,  oh.  Your  hand,  it  has  been  wounded.  Did  I 
hurt  it?  I  am  terribly  sorry." 

The  poilu  made  a  half-hearted  effort  to  thrust 
the  bandaged  member  behind  his  back,  but  the  girl 
was  nevertheless  holding  it  gently  as  he  replied,  "  It 
is  nothing,  nothing  at  all.  A  slight  infection  in  an 
old  scratch." 

"  Look,  Joan.  I  still  have  the  cap,"  shrilled 
Pierre  from  a  safe  distance. 

"  '  Joan  ? '  Is  it  then  that  you  are  the  Joan  of 
whom  my  little  sisters  have  written  me  so  often  — 
she  whom  they  call  their  angel?  " 

"  I  am  Joan  le  Jeune,  yes,  but  no  angel,  I  fear," 
replied  the  girl,  the  dark  lashes  veiling  her  down- 
cast eyes. 

"Joan  le  Jeune?  But  not  the  sister  of  Henri, 
of  my  own  battery  of  seventy-fives?" 

"  Henri  ?  Do  you  know  him,  then  ?  "  The  large 
eyes  were  wide  open  again,  and  a  joyful  light  was 
dawning  in  them. 

'  Know  him  ? '  But  assuredly.  Are  we  not 
comrades  —  brothers  almost?  Do  we  not  serve 
the  same  mistress,  the  long  and  slender  beautiful 


JOAN  37 

gun  which  he  has  christened  'Joan/  after  you? 
Ah,  but  it  is  an  angel,  our  angel  of  death." 

"Truly?  Your  beautiful  cannon  is  called  for 
me?  Then  I  am  happy,  for  if  I  cannot  myself 
fight  against  the  Boche,  my  namesake  fights  for 
me."  Joan  stood  very  straight,  her  lips  parted, 
hands  clenched  and  eyes  flashing. 

"  The  Spirit  of  France,"  breathed  Jean,  with  a 
look  of  open  admiration  in  his  own  blue  eyes. 

"  A  friend  of  our  dear  Henri !  Then  you  must 
come  at  once  to  my  house,  and  tell  us  all  the  news 
of  him  whom  we  have  not  seen  for  many  long 
weeks.  Pierre,  thou  shalt  come  also,  for  there  is 
bread  and  sugar  for  thee  —  a  very  little  sugar," 
she  added,  as  her  face  clouded  momentarily. 
"  Come,  have  no  fear  of  thy  brother,  for  I  shall 
protect  thee,  my  little  one." 

It  would  seem  that  Pierre  was  not  very  greatly 
frightened,  for  as  the  three  crossed  the  road  to 
Joan's  cottage  his  sticky  hands  were  clasping  a 
hand  of  each;  and  the  face  of  Joan's  mother  — 
who  had  been  drawn  to  the  window  by  the  sound 
of  the  commotion  and  merry  laughter  —  assumed 
a  startled  expression,  as  though  a  vision  had  been 
granted  her  of  the  years  to  come. 

When  father  le  Jeune  learned  the  identity  of  the 
visitor,  he  clambered  stiffry  down  the  ladder  and 


38    THE  MAID  OF  MIRABELLE 

made  him  welcome  with  a  horny-handed  grasp, 
and  nothing  would  do  but  that  Jean  enter  the  little 
room,  seat  himself  at  the  plain  wooden  table,  and 
partake  of  a  tiny  glass  of  the  crystal-clear  and 
potent  Mirdbelle,  a  tall  bottle  of  which  was  hidden 
in  the  corner  cupboard  for  all  fete  occasions. 

The  sunshine  poured  into  the  room,  silhouetting 
Joan's  perfect  profile,  and  creating  an  aurora 
around  her  head  as  she  sat  by  the  wide  open  win- 
dow; it  drew  from  her  flashing  needle  fleeting 
darts  of  light  which  jumped  about  the  wall  and 
kept  Mimite's  head  in  constant  motion  following 
them,  as  she  lay  contentedly  on  Jean's  knees;  it 
imprisoned  itself  in  the  sparkling  liquor;  it  brought 
out  the  deep  rich  red  of  the  ancient  tiles  on  the 
floor;  and,  perversely,  as  it  made  more  beautiful 
the  things  wherein  beauty  dwelt,  it  showed  up  each 
discoloring  spot  and  disfiguring  crack  on  the  plaster 
wall,  the  crude  lithography  of  its  sole  ornament  — 
a  gaudy  calendar  —  and  the  network  of  wrinkles 
in  grandmother's  strong,  homely  face. 

But  Jean,  as  he  told  the  story  of  the  front  in 
fluent  French,  had  no  eyes  for  the  defects  in  the 
picture,  for  his  gaze  seldom,  even  for  a  moment, 
left  the  flushed,  lovely  face  of  Joan,  the  Maid  of 
Mirabelle,  as  she  bent  industriously  over  her  work. 


CHAPTER  III 

IN  THE  DARK 

THE  slow-moving  train  crept  eastward  through 
the  dark,  without  lights,  and  with  every  window 
closely  curtained.  Then,  for  the  hundredth  time, 
it  seemed  to  Daniel,  it  came  to  a  creaking  halt.  He 
stirred  uneasily  in  his  cramped  position,  and  the 
Red  Cross  nurse,  who  —  wrapped  in  her  long  blue 
cloak  and  with  her  feet  tucked  up  under  her  —  was 
leaning  heavily  against  his  shoulder,  groaned  be- 
neath her  breath,  and  murmured,  "  O  Lord,  again? 
Wha-what  time  is  it?  " 

Laboriously  he  extricated  his  left  arm,  and  con- 
sulted the  illuminated  dial  of  his  wrist  watch. 
"  Quarter  to  three.  Cheer  up,  we're  only  nine 
hours  late,  already." 

"  I  suppose  that  I'm  breaking  your  arm ;  but  I'm 
past  caring,"  she  admitted,  as  she  pillowed  her 
head  against  the  sleeve  of  his  heavy  reefer,  whose 
shoulder  bore  an  insignia  of  a  four-pointed  black 
star  on  another  of  red,  which,  together,  formed  the 

39 


40    THE  MAID  OF  MIRABELLE 

eight-pointed  emblem  of  the  city  of  Nancy  —  a 
symbol  that,  with  the  freedom  of  the  city,  had  been 
granted  the  Society  of  Friends  fifty  years  before, 
in  recognition  of  its  valiant  work  of  rescue  carried 
on  there  during  the  Hun's  earlier  crime  against 
France. 

"  Not  in  the  least.  I  don't  mind,"  responded 
Daniel.  A  few  months  earlier  his  Quaker  train- 
ing and  traditions  had  suffered  a  rude  shock,  when 
he  had  undergone  the  first  of  a  series  of  similar 
experiences,  but  it  was  now  an  old  story  to  him  — 
this  travel  by  night  on  a  train  where  seven  or  eight 
men,  and  a  woman  or  two,  were  generally  crowded 
into  a  compartment  designed  to  hold  six. 

By  no  stretch  of  his  romantic  imagination  could 
he  regard  the  long  journey  from  Paris  as  having 
been  a  pleasant  one.  The  car  had,  to  be  sure,  been 
marked  Premiere  Classe,  but  the  thick  comfortable 
cushions  were  missing  from  the  compartment's 
seats,  and  the  thin  layer  of  cloth  which  concealed 
from  sight  the  wire  springs  beneath,  did  little  else; 
the  pale  gray  broadcloth  of  the  upholstered  backs 
was  spotted  and  stained  from  the  contact  of  many 
unwashed  heads,  and  the  air  was  close  and  heavy 
with  the  odors  of  clothing  and  humanity.  The 
other  occupants  of  the  crowded  quarters  —  one 
American  and  six  French  officers  returning  to  their 


IN  THE  DARK  41 

various  units  at  the  front  —  had  all  been  in  the 
hairspring  humor  born  of  the  strain  of  constant 
fighting,  and  quarrels  among  them  had  been  fre- 
quent until  restless  slumber  had  overtaken  them, 
one  by  one.  They  had  reached  their  culmination 
when  the  American  had  savagely  driven  the  butt  of 
his  automatic  through  a  pane  of  glass  in  one  of  the 
windows,  after  he  had  opened  it  repeatedly,  in  an 
Attempt  to  let  in  some  fresh  air,  only  to  have  it 
closed  a  few  moments  later  by  one  of  the  French- 
men. Now  the  place  was  cold  and  damp,  and 
Daniel's  feet  were  numb,  despite  their  thick  woolen 
socks  and  heavy  boots  —  boots  that  were  caked 
ankle-deep  with  dried  mud.  Only  one  narrow 
streak  of  wan  light,  escaping  from  a  slit  in  the 
hemispherical  silk  shade  closed  down  around  the 
single  electric  bulb,  dimly  illuminated  the  compart- 
ment, and  deep  shadows  made  the  more  grotesque 
the  queer  postures  of  the  sleepers. 

A  thin,  high-pitched  whistle,  which  might  have 
been  emitted  from  a  child's  toy,  sounded  outside, 
and  the  train  protestingly  resumed  its  halting  ad- 
vance through  the  darkness. 

All  was  silent  without  and  within,  save  for  the 
heavy  breathing  of  some  of  the  officers. 

Unable  to  get  to  sleep  again,  Daniel  lifted  one 
edge  of  the  tightly  drawn  curtain,  and  peered  out 


42    THE  MAID  OF  MIRABELLE 

into  the  night.  A  quarter  moon  dimly  disclosed  the 
landscape.  Shadowy  forest  forms,  here  and  there 
jagged  and  torn  by  shells  which  had  burst  among 
them,  made  the  horizon;  uneven  lines  of  rusted 
barbed  wire  crossed  the  near-by  barren  field,  and 
through  the  foreground  were  scattered  small,  irreg- 
ular pools  formed  by  a  recent  rain,  whose  water 
reflected  the  pale  night. 

"Shell  holes,"  thought  Daniel.  He  had  been 
bred  in  the  middle  of  a  farming  district,  and  the 
knowledge  of  the  years  which  must  elapse  before 
these  fields  of  France  would  once  more  yield  their 
vitally  needed  crop  —  or  any  crop  except  one  of 
iron  and  steel  —  filled  his  heart  with  mingled  anger 
and  pity.  Yet  the  sight  stirred  within  him  another 
feeling,  as  well.  It  was  his  first  journey  toward 
the  front;  through  territory  which  had  once  been 
the  front  itself. 

The  tide  of  war  had  turned  at  last.  Two  months 
previous  the  German  Gibraltar  —  the  St.  Mihiel 
salient  —  had  been  wiped  out  as  though  the  blue 
waves  which  it  had  held  back  so  long  had  risen, 
turning  to  brown  in  the  turmoil  of  that  rising,  and 
swept  over  it  irresistibly.  Verdun,  the  immortal 
citadel,  the  Port  of  France,  was  at  last  freed  from 
the  danger  which  had  daily  menaced  it  during  three 
years  of  appalling  f rightf ulness ;  the  section  be- 


IN  THE  DARK  43 

tween  which  and  the  despoiler  it  had  stood  as  a 
shield  and  buckler,  was  beginning  to  draw  its  first 
free  breath,  and  to  stir  with  uneasy  yearning  for 
its  children.  Thither,  into  the  Lorrainian  valley  of 
the  Meurthe  and  Moselle,  Daniel  was  bound.  His 
apprenticeship  was  ended.  He  was  a  fully  trained 
worker,  filled  with  the  strength  of  youthful  enthu- 
siasm for  his  task. 

Ten  months  before,  in  response  to  a  suggestion 
of  the  Sous-Prefet  of  Verdun,  his  society  had 
taken  over  thirty  villages  west  of  that  historic  city, 
and  begun  to  make  elaborate  preparations  for  the 
eventual  return  of  their  inhabitants,  but  the  gigantic 
German  offensive  in  the  spring  had  disrupted  all 
plans  and  forced  a  hasty  evacuation  of  everyone 
within  its  path.  Now  the  work  had  been  begun 
again,  with  a  zeal  which  the  discouraging  losses 
and  set-backs  could  not  quench.  Others  were  be- 
fore him  in  the  sector,  but  he  had  been  assigned  to 
certain  villages  whose  condition  he  was  to  study, 
and  he  felt  like  a  scout,  riding  forward  alone  to 
examine  the  field  for  a  new  battle  —  that  of  re- 
construction and  rehabilitation — which  would  begin 
as  soon  as  the  inflexible  governmental  ban  should  be 
raised,  and  the  invasion  of  peaceful  inhabitants,  re- 
turning to  their  shattered  homes,  commence.  They 
would  be  coming  back  from  exile,  he  knew ;  at  first  a 


44    THE  MAID  OF  MIRABELLE 

few,  then  more  and  more,  just  as  the  tiny  waves  of 
an  incoming  tide  creep  up  the  beach.  Apparently 
uncontrolled,  but  in  fact  ruled  by  a  law  as  inex- 
orable as  nature's  own,  they  would  come,  for  the 
Government  in  its  wisdom  had  decreed  that  only 
those  might  first  return  from  their  widely  scattered 
places  of  refuge,  who  could  assist  in  rebuilding  the 
broken  homes,  and  later  —  in  the  spring  —  those 
who  could  till  the  soil  and  so  add  to  the  store  of 
material  sustenance  for  the  rest,  who  would  follow 
in  the  course  of  time. 

Again  a  grinding  of  brakes,  another  jolting  halt. 
Mumbled  curses  in  two  languages  came  from  the 
lips  of  the  officers,  and  the  American  angrily  jerked 
open  the  shade  which  masked  the  electric  light,  and 
reached  for  the  handle  of  the  door  at  the  side  of 
the  compartment.  A  French  captain  sprang  to  in- 
tercept him,  while  another  hastily  closed  the  shade, 
both  expostulating  rapidly  upon  the  possibility  of  a 
Boche  avion  being  in  the  sky,  watching  like  a  night 
hawk,  for  just  such  an  incautious  signal.  With  an 
oath,  the  Yankee  forced  his  way  outside,  and,  in 
strenuous  English,  began  to  demand  what  in  hell 
was  the  matter  now. 

A  harried  little  guard,  who  chanced  to  be  pass- 
ing at  a  dog-trot,  apparently  guessed  the  purport  of 
the  inquiry  from  the  tone  in  which  it  was  uttered, 


IN  THE  DARK  45 

although  the  words  themselves  were  unintelligible 
to  him,  for  he  answered  in  excited  French,  "  There 
is  a  wreck  on  the  track  ahead  —  an  American  troop 
train  has  been  derailed."  And  he  added  some 
things  uncomplimentary  to  crazy  American  engi- 
neers who  insisted  in  going  hell-bent-for-election, 
or  its  French  equivalent,  over  an  unfamiliar  war- 
time track  in  the  dark. 

His  interrogator  knew  just  enough  of  the  lan- 
guage to  get  the  drift  of  this  remark,  and  his 
nerves  were  already  sufficiently  on  edge  from 
months  of  duty  on  the  fighting  line,  capped  by  the 
night  on  the  train,  to  cause  him  to  snap  out,  "  Well, 
by  G — d,  they  go  somewhere  anyway,  even  if  it 
is  only  to  hell.  They  do  more  than  just  jump 
around,  like  frogs." 

If  neither  of  the  speakers  could  fully  understand 
the  other,  a  fact  which  perhaps  prevented  worse 
from  happening,  Daniel  could  appreciate  the  re- 
marks of  both.  He  had  studied  French  at  the  Uni- 
versity with  more  than  common  diligence,  not  so 
much  because  of  an  unusual  conscientiousness  in 
the  acquisition  of  knowledge,  but  because  it  was  the 
language  of  romance,  and  opened  a  path  down 
which  his  mind  could  travel  with  delight.  It  had 
therefore  been  a  source  of  surprise  and  mortifica- 
-Jtion  to  him  upon  reaching  France,  to  find  himself  al- 


46     THE  MAID  OF  MIRABELLE 

most  hopelessly  at  sea  in  the  speech  of  its  people,  and 
to  realize  that  conversational  French  in  an  American 
school,  and  in  the  land  of  its  nativity,  are  two 
quite  different  things.  For  some  weeks,  the  fluent, 
unmodulated  language  had  been  merely  a  jumble 
of  sounds  to  his  ears,  but  as  time  passed  he  had  be- 
gun to  pick  out  fragments  of  the  verbal  picture 
puzzle,  and  it  was  now  fast  taking  form,  although 
he  was  still  unable  to  think,  and  so  to  speak  rapidly, 
in  the  foreign  tongue. 

Half  amused,  half  disturbed,  he  was  on  the  point 
of  interposing,  for  the  purpose  of  pouring  oil  upon 
the  troubled  international  waters,  but  the  nurse  laid 
a  restraining  hand  on  his  arm,  and  said  with  a 
sleepy  laugh,  "  Oh,  let  them  get  it  out  of  their 
systems.  Talk  is  a  safety  valve,  and  apparently  our 
compatriot  has  got  to  fight  with  someone  to-night, 
even  if  it's  an  ally.  To  tell  the  truth  I  feel  like 
saying  '  damn/  myself." 

'  I  cannot  use  such  words,  but  ...  I  thank 
thee,  Madame/  as  a  venerable  member  of  my  sect 
is  ireported  to  have  said,  under  somewhat  similar 
conditions/'  smiled  Daniel. 

The  side  embankment  of  the  track  was  now  lined 
with  a  hundred  ghostly  figures,  stamping  about  in 
an  endeavor  to  get  warm.  Discontented  and  angry 
mutterings  filled  the  air. 


IN  THE  DARK  47 

After  many  minutes  word  was  passed  back  from 
lip  to  lip  that  the  train  was  stalled  for  the  rest  of 
the  night,  but  there  was  a  small  town  a  kilometre 
down  the  track,  where  rest  and  shelter  might  be 
found.  Instantly  the  strange  caravan,  men  of  all 
ranks,  and  of  no  rank,  mingled  indiscriminately, 
was  in  motion,  straggling  down  the  dim  track  in 
single  file.  Daniel  constituted  himself  escort  to  his 
late  train  companion,  and,  before  the  trip  was 
ended,  more  than  once  silently  thanked  his  Fates 
for  endowing  him  with  strong  arms,  since  he 
carried  her  heavy  suit  case  in  addition  to  his  own. 

When  they  finally  reached  the  little  station  the 
driver  of  a  Red  Cross  ambulance  stepped  up  and 
addressed  the  girl. 

"  Here's  luck  .  .  .  for  me,  at  least,"  she  an- 
nounced, as  she  turned  to  Daniel  to  relieve  him  of 
half  his  burden.  "  They  knew  at  the  hospital  to- 
ward which  I  am  headed  that  I  was  coming  on  this 
train,  and,  when  they  learned  of  the  wreck,  they 
anticipated  my  dilemma  and  sent  a  car  to  meet  me 
here.  Sorry  that  I  can't  ask  you  to  come,  too,  but 
the  driver  informs  me  that  everything  is  *  full  up ' 
there.  Still,  I  guess  that  a  man  can  find  some  sort 
of  accommodation  here  —  the  place  looks  fairly  si- 
zable. Good-bye,"  she  added  as  she  clasped  his  hand 
firmly.  "  We  may  run  into  one  another  again,  and 


48     THE  MAID  OF  MIRABELLE 

anyway,  perhaps,  considering  the  hour,  you'll  for- 
give me  if  I  make  an  abominable  pun,  and  tell  you 
that  you  have  truly  been  a  '  Friend '  in  need  to- 
night." 

"  Good-bye,  and  good  luck,"  responded  Daniel, 
but  the  half-hearted  laugh  with  which  he  had  an- 
swered her  jest,  died  quickly  away  as  he  watched 
the  conveyance  disappear  into  the  night,  leaving 
him  alone. 

All  the  others  had  also  been  swallowed  up  in  the 
gloom,  and  he  did  not  know  which  way  to  turn,  but 
the  broken  outlines  of  a  black  street  invited  him 
forward.  A  stumbling  walk  down  a  sidewalk, 
whose  flagging  was  full  of  holes,  finally  brought 
him  to  a  cross  street.  It  was  filled  with  a  confu- 
sion of  sounds,  the  rattle  of  wheels  and  accoutre- 
ments, the  heavy  breathing  of  horses,  the  crunch 
of  plodding  feet  as  they  slumped  through  the  half- 
frozen  mud,  the  creak  of  straining  harness,  and  an 
occasional  word  in  some  weary,  or  exasperated, 
voice.  Like  a  phantom  army,  a  battery  of  French 
seventy-fives  was  passing  Northward  through  the 
shadows,  toward  the  deeper  shadows  of  the  valley 
of  death.  Now  and  again  the  wan  moonlight,  as 
it  filtered  through  a  ragged  break  in  the  skyline 
where  a  house  lay  in  ruins,  half  disclosed  the  forms 
of  trudging  men  in  ghostly  blue,  splashed  with  mud, 


IN  THE  DARK  49 

tired,  bearded  faces  under  steel  helmets,  or  the 
long,  lean  barrels  of  the  famous  cannon. 

The  grim  pageant  brought  the  war  suddenly 
very  close  to  the  lone  watcher,  and  his  imagination 
began  to  run  riot.  In  his  mind's  eye  he  beheld 
the  slow  advance  change  to  a  headlong  rush,  the 
guns  wheeled  into  battle  position,  the  protecting 
pieces  of  burlap  and  canvas  stripped  from  the 
muzzles,  which  began  to  belch  forth  distant 
death  and  destruction,  while  the  silent  night 
was  filled  with  the  wild  clamor  from  their  iron 
throats. 

The  battery  passed  from  sight.  The  vision  faded 
with  it.  The  present  flowed  back,  and  brought  to 
the  man  a  realization  of  the  fact  that  he  was  shiver- 
ing, weary,  and  utterly  without  shelter  for  what  re- 
mained of  the  night.  He  turned  at  random  and 
found  himself  close  beside  a  solitary  sentry,  and 
in  his  still  halting  French  asked  where  he  might 
find  a  place  to  sleep. 

"  No  chance,  I'm  afraid,  Monsieur.  The  town  is 
overcrowded  with  troops  and  every  spot  twice  filled. 
Perhaps  at  the  Foyer  du  Soldat  .  .  .  '  He 
shrugged  his  shoulders.  "  It  is  but  a  few  steps 
down  the  road;  you  might  try  there." 

Daniel  thanked  him,  and  moved  in  the  direction 
indicated.  All  was  dark,  dismal.  At  last  the  sug- 


50     THE  MAID  OF  MIRABELLE 

gestion  of  a  ruddy  glow,  showing  through  a  tear 
in  one  oilcloth  window  of  a  long,  low  wooden  bar- 
rack, proclaimed  the  presence  of  the  possible  ref- 
uge. He  fumbled  for,  and  found  the  crude  latch, 
pulled  open  the  door  and  stepped  inside.  At  first 
he  could  see  little  but  a  patchwork  of  phantasmal 
shadows.  Then  the  dim  interior  began  slowly  to 
take  form,  under  the  influence  of  the  dull  red  gleam 
that  came  from  the  open  door  of  a  diminutive  iron 
stove  set  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  and  he  made 
out  two  rows  of  rude  tables  and  narrow  benches 
down  the  sides  and  a  single  counter  at  one  end. 
Many  silent,  overcoated  forms  lay  about  in  varied 
postures  on  the  hard  tables,  the  counter  and  the 
packed  dirt  floor  itself;  others  sat  on  the  benches, 
bent  forward  in  the  sleep  of  exhaustion,  with  their 
heads  buried  in  their  arms.  The  air  which  filtered 
in  through  many  a  crack,  was  chill  with  the  damp 
of  the  night  outside,  and  heavy  with  unpleasant 
odors.  As  his  eyes  became  more  fully  accustomed 
to  the  semi-obscurity,  Daniel  saw  that  posters,  big 
and  small,  covered  the  rough  walls,  that  strings 
of  little  flags  and  festoons  of  colored  paper  — 
like  Christmas  decorations  —  fluttered  from  the 
rafters,  and  that  behind  the  counter  stood  a  big 
caldron. 

"  So  this,"  he  thought,  "  is  a  Foyer  du  Soldat  — 


IN  THE  DARK  51 

the  Soldiers'  Fireside,  which,  to  the  poilu,  is  a 
glimpse  of  heaven  itself,  poor  chaps.  And  our 
Yankee  boys  growl  over  huts  which  are  fairly 
luxurious  by  comparison!  It's  certainly  true  that 
the  more  one  has  the  more  he  wants." 

The  friendly  glow  of  the  fire,  as  someone  leaned 
forward  and  thrust  a  piece  of  stick  into  it,  beck- 
oned him  to  approach. 

Two  poilus,  young  in  appearance,  despite  their 
unshaven  faces,  were  seated  before  the  stove  on  a 
little  bench,  still  engaged  in  a  low-toned  conversa- 
tion. One  of  them  glanced  up  as  Daniel  drew  near, 
smiled  quickly,  and  greeted  him  with,  "  Good 
evening,  —  or  better,  good  morning,  —  Monsieur. 
Move  over  a  little,  Henri,"  he  added,  addressing 
his  companion. 

The  other  obeyed.  Daniel  slid  into  the  vacated 
place  with  a  brief  word  of  thanks,  and  held  his 
stiffened  hands  to  the  welcome  warmth. 

"  You  are  cold,  then  ?  But  naturally.  Perhaps  a 
cup  of  hot  chocolate  .  .  .  '  The  one  who  had 
been  addressed  as  "  Henri  "  loosened  his  own  tin 
cup  from  the  equipment  pack  which  rested  against 
his  legs,  vaulted  lightly  over  a  slumbering  form  on 
the  counter,  and  drew  a  stream  of  brown  liquid 
from  the  spigot  at  the  bottom  of  the  tin  caldron. 
"It  is  cold  now,  but  if  you  will  wait  for  a  mo- 


52     THE  MAID  OF  MIRAEELLE 

ment  .  .  .  '  He  placed  the  cup  on  the  cover  of 
the  little  stove. 

"  Thanks.  It  is  mighty  kind  of  you,"  said  Dan- 
iel gratefully. 

"  At  your  service.  There  is  an  American,  as 
well  as  a  French  Directeur  here,  but  they  have  both 
fallen  asleep  at  last  —  they  were  serving  the  choc- 
olate until  after  midnight." 

"You  are  just  passing  through  the  village?" 

"  Yes,  we  are  on  our  way  to  the  Argonne  front 
to  help  support  your  American  infantry  there,  with 
our  beautiful  seventy-fives.  Soon  the  Boche  will  be 
running  again  —  is  it  not  so,  Jean  ?  " 

"  But  yes,  assuredly,"  agreed  the  other,  whom 
the  question  had  aroused  from  a  reverie,  induced 
perhaps,  thought  Daniel,  by  the  post  card  picture 
which  he  held  in  his  hand.  Now  he  returned  it  to 
Henri,  and  as  the  firelight  illuminated  the  face  of 
a  young  girl  the  American  inquired  casually, 
"  Your  fiancee,  Monsieur?  " 

"  Ah,  no.  It  is  my  sister.  Would  you  care  to 
look  at  the  picture?  It  is  not  a  very  good  likeness 
of  her." 

He  took  the  inexpensive  card  held  out  to  him. 
The  photography  was  crude,  indeed,  but  it  could 
not  rob  the  face  of  its  purity  of  line  and  sweetness, 
nor  disguise  the  remarkable  beauty  of  the  big,  dark 


IN  THE  DARK  53 

eyes  which  seemed  to  gaze  straight  up  into  his. 
Instinctively  he  turned  the  card  over,  and  read  the 
words,  written  in  fine,  slanting  letters,  "  A  mon 
cher  frere.  Joan." 

"  She  must  be  very  lovely,  if  this  does  not  do  her 
justice,"  he  remarked  as  he  passed  it  back  after 
studying  the  face  a  moment  more. 

"  Perhaps,"  the  youth  shrugged.  "  At  least 
Jean,  here,  seems  to  think  so.  He  has  visited  my 
home  village  since  I  have,  and  used  our  friendship 
to  get  acquainted  with  her.  Oh,  well,  you  can  deny 
it  if  you  like,  but  it  will  do  you  no  good." 

"  And  your  home  —  is  it  far  from  here,  Mon- 
sieur?" 

"  Not  so  very  far,  a  hundred  kilometres,  per- 
haps. I  live  in  a  little  village  of  the  Vosges,  called 
Mirabelle.  And  you,  Monsieur?  Do  you  come, 
perhaps,  from  New  York  ?  " 

"  No,  I  too  live  in  a  small  village,  in  the  State 
of  Pennsylvania."  Something  caused  Daniel  to 
reciprocate  the  courtesy  shown  to  him,  and  from 
an  inner  breast  pocket  he  drew  a  small  likeness  of 
Faith,  which  he  had  finally  succeeded  in  importun- 
ing her  to  have  taken  and  to  send  him. 

"  Ah,  she  too  is  beautiful,  Monsieur.  It  is  the 
picture  of  your  sister,  likewise?  " 

"Yes." 


54    THE  MAID  OF  MIRABELLE 

The  word  sprang  to  Daniel's  lips  unbidden,  per- 
haps as  the  result  of  unconscious  force  of  habit,  but 
although  he  tried  to  dismiss  the  matter  from  his 
mind  as  of  no  real  account,  it  disturbed  him,  and 
this  fact  made  him  angry.  He  could  not  very  well 
explain  the  situation  —  it  was  a  bit  beyond  his 
French.  "After  all,  what  does  it  matter?"  he 
reflected.  It  was  a  trivial  thing  and  not  actually  a 
lie,  in  any  sense,  since  he  had  had  no  intention  to 
deceive.  Yet  somehow,  it  troubled  his  conscience, 
and  Faith's  calm  eyes  seemed  in  his  mind  to  take 
on  a  look  of  pained  reproach.  Is  it  possible  that 
there  are  occasional  moments  when  we  are  granted 
the  power  of  prescience,  without  realizing  it? 

"  This  is  foolish ;  I'm  making  a  mountain  out  of 
a  mole  hill,"  he  decided,  yet  he  hastily  returned  the 
picture  to  its  resting-place  over  his  heart,  and 
reached  for  the  cup  of  chocolate,  which  was  now 
beginning  to  steam.  The  tin  handle  burned  his 
fingers,  and,  absurd  as  it  was,  he  experienced  the 
feeling  that  he  was  being  punished. 

For  a  few  moments  longer  the  three  chatted 
spasmodically,  then  sleep  began  to  hang  more  and 
more  heavily  on  Daniel's  eyelids,  and  he  finally  ex- 
cused himself,  stumbled  to  the  counter  and  edged 
into  a  space  between  two  sleepers.  Instantly  he, 
too,  was  asleep,  unconscious  of  the  hard  board,  and 


IN  THE  DARK  55 

dreaming  of  a  girl  who  sometimes  seemed  to  be 
the  one  whom  he  had  left  behind.  But  fully  as 
often  the  face  which  she  turned  towards  him  was 
that  of  the  girl  on  the  post  card  —  Joan. 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE  RED  RIVER 

FOR  seven  weary  days  and  weary  nights,  the  red 
river  had  flowed  in.  Interminable,  it  seemed  to 
Daniel.  For  seven  days  he  had  been  living  in  the 
town  to  which  they  had  sent  him  to  prepare  a  way 
for  the  return  of  those  who  followed  the  paths  of 
peace,  and  at  the  very  moment  of  his  arrival  he 
had  been  caught  in  the  crimson  stream  of  war, 
whose  source  was  in  the  forests  of  the  Argonne, 
and  the  valleys  of  the  Meuse.  The  day  that  he  had 
reached  his  destination  it  had  begun  to  wend  its 
way  into  and  through  the  partly  ruined  town, 
where  a  half-way  dressing  station  had  been  hastily 
erected  to  serve  as  a  sluice  gate,  and  keep  the  tide 
of  bleeding  humanity  from  engulfing  the  base  hos- 
pital below. 

Daniel,  who  belonged  to  a  Society  already  affili- 
ated with  the  Red  Cross,  and  who  was,  further- 
more, in  a  sense  a  free  lance  for  the  time  being, 
could  hardly  have  escaped  lending  his  aid  as 

56 


THE  RED  RIVER  57 

stretcher  bearer  and  general  untrained  orderly  for 
the  emergency,  even  if  he  had  so  desired.  But,  in 
fact,  the  plain  call  of  duty  and  the  cry  of  suffering 
interblending,  had  stirred  him  to  the  depths. 

Day  and  night,  with  only  a  rare  hour's  sleep 
snatched  at  odd  intervals,  he  had  labored  unremit- 
tingly, until  his  powerful  body  alternately  cried  out 
for  rest,  and  obeyed  his  will  as  though  it  were 
something  detached  —  an  automaton.  He  was  un- 
bathed,  bearded,  blear  of  eye.  The  heart  within 
him  was  numb  with  the  fatigue  that  follows  pity 
long  sustained;  his  imagination  was  surfeited. 
Sometimes  he  found  himself  dazedly  wondering  if 
he  were  really  that  man  who  had  once  secretly 
yearned  for  the  battle,  the  while  steadfastly  forcing 
himself  to  walk  in  the  way  of  peace.  True,  he  had 
not  even  yet  seen  the  clash  of  arms  which  arouses 
men  to  the  frenay  of  beasts,  though  day  and  night 
the  distant  din  of  the  combat  had  rung  in  his  ears; 
but  he  had  looked  upon  the  other  side  of  the  shield 
until  his  soul  had  sickened  at  the  sight. 

In  ambulances,  in  field  motor  cars,  in  huge  jolt- 
ing camions  —  even  afoot  —  the  red  river  had 
flowed  in,  to  spread  itself  through  the  town  like  a 
dismal  swamp  before  flowing  on  again. 

Men  in  torn  and  filthy  khaki,  dyed  crimson,  com- 
posed it  chiefly,  but  other  men  in  filthy  and  torn 


58    THE  MAID  OF  MIRABELLE 

horizon  blue,  similarly  discolored,  were  mingled 
with  it. 

A  terrible  toll  was  being  taken  by  the  gods  of 
wrath,  up  yonder  in  the  once  verdant  forests  of  the 
Argonne,  and  the  once  lovely  valleys  of  the  Meuse. 
And  still  the  stream  ran  on  and  on,  like  a  river  of  the 
Inferno,  bearing  on  its  breast  the  broken,  bloody 
bodies  of  what  had  been  strong  men. 

War !  Mixed  with  his  compassion,  there  grew  day 
by  day  in  Daniel's  heart  a  bitter  hatred  against  the 
Thing,  and  the  power  that  had  let  it  loose  again  on 
the  world.  Like  a  hidden  fire  it  smouldered  and 
burned  constantly,  torturing  him,  until  he  would 
sometimes  clinch  his  fists  with  the  wild  desire  to 
seize  a  weapon  and  cast  himself  into  the  fray,  if 
only  to  perish,  and  so  forget. 

In  the  hour  of  his  arrival  he  met  once  more  the 
nurse  who  had  been  his  companion  on  the  train  the 
night  previous.  At  first  he  had  not  remembered 
her  face,  now  seen  in  so  different  a  setting.  Then 
her  smiling  inquiry  if  he  had  slept  well  had  brought 
recognition,  and  when  the  work  overwhelmed  them 
all,  he  had  placed  himself  under  her  orders,  and 
from  then  on  served  her  with  the  faithfulness  of  a 
dog. 

2jC3f£2f£2)CSfC2fC3jC2fC 

Late  in  the  afternoon  of  that  seventh  day,  an 


THE  RED  RIVER  59 

eddy  from  the  swelling  tide  left  before  the  door 
of  the  barrack  where  he  labored,  a  new  group  of 
softly  cursing,  or  pathetically  dumb,  sufferers. 
They  were  mostly  American,  but  two  wore  the 
faded  blue  of  France.  One  of  them,  with  a  sleeve 
dangling  loosely,  and  his  left  arm  supported  in  a 
hastily  fashioned  sling,  was  walking  slowly  by  the 
side  of  a  stretcher  on  which  the  other  lay,  motion- 
less. 

The  face  of  the  former  seemed  somehow  fa- 
miliar to  Daniel,  but  he  was  far  too  occupied  to 
give  the  matter  more  than  a  passing  thought,  and 
not  until  the  one  who  lay  so  still  on  the  canvas  had 
been  removed  to  a  cot,  and,  with  a  low  moan, 
turned  his  head  so  that  his  features  were  fully 
visible,  did  he  remember.  The  latter,  who  was 
shaven  now,  and,  in  the  deathlike  pallor  of  his 
countenance,  appeared  pitifully  young,  was  the  lad 
who  had  befriended  him  in  the  Foyer  du  Soldat 
that  dreary  night;  the  other  was  the  companion 
whom  he  had  called  "Jean." 

Daniel  had  met  him  but  that  once,  and  then  for 
a  few  moments  only,  yet  it  suddenly  seemed  to  him 
as  though,  amid  the  endless  stream  of  strangers,  he 
had  been  brought  face  to  face  with  a  friend.  The 
little  incidents  of  that  earlier  night  passed  in  pro- 
cession before  his  mind's  eye.  He  remembered  the 


60     THE  MAID  OF  MIRABELLE 

vigorous  ease  with  which  the  lad,  now  stricken 
down  in  the  flower  of  his  abundant  youth,  had 
vaulted  the  counter  to  procure  a  drink  for  him,  and 
into  his  morbid  thoughts  was  woven  an  oft-re- 
peated verse  from  the  gospel  of  the  Apostle  Mark : 
"  For  whosoever  shall  give  you  a  cup  of  water  to 
drink  in  my  name  .  .  .  verily  I  say  to  you  that 
he  shall  not  lose  his  reward."  His  reward!  Was 
this,  then,  the  just  deserts  of  one  so  young,  so 
strong  and  full  of  vitality  —  to  be  snatched  away 
from  mortal  life,  and  the  ones  dear  to  him,  by  the 
hand  of  Death?  The  picture  of  Joan  took  form  in 
his  memory,  and  the  large  dark  eyes  seemed  to  hold 
a  look  of  unutterable  pain. 

A  doctor  and  his  nurse  were  working  swiftly; 
callously,  it  seemed  to  Daniel,  although  he  had  long 
since  become  accustomed  to  the  sight  of  their  effi- 
cient haste.  The  garments  were  already  stripped 
from  the  slender  torso,  and  the  crude  first-aid 
dressing  from  the  muscular  breast. 

"Is  it  ...  is  it  serious,  doctor?"  asked  the 
man,  anxiously.  "  You  see  I  know  him." 

"So?"  The  surgeon  probed  the  wound  tenta- 
tively. "  Well,  I'm  sorry  to  have  to  tell  you,  but 
he  can't  live  an  hour.  The  piece  of  shell  passed 
completely  through  the  lung,  and  his  vitality  is 
nearly  exhausted.  Dr.  Tuffier  might  save  him,  by 


THE  RED  RIVER  61 

a  miracle,  but  he  would  never  live  to  reach  Paris. 
We  can  do  nothing  for  him,  not  a  single  thing. 
It's  too  bad  —  a  fine  lad."  He  turned  away  to 
another  patient,  while  the  nurse  replaced  the  dress- 
ing and  pulled  a  blanket  over  the  unconscious 
form. 

Jean  had  remained  standing  at  Daniel's  side,  and, 
although  the  words  were  meaningless  to  him,  he 
had  understood  the  expression  on  the  latter's  face 
as  the  sentence  was  pronounced. 

"He  will  die  then,  Monsieur?" 

"  Yes,  within  an  hour,  the  doctor  says,"  the 
American  answered,  dully. 

There  was  silence  for  a  space. 

"  Ah,  God  —  the  poor  boy !  We  have  for  a  long 
time  been  comrades;  like  brothers,  Monsieur.  We 
served  the  same  gun.  He  had  named  it  '  Joan  '  for 
the  sister  whom  he  so  loves.  A  Boche  shell  burst 
directly  in  our  midst,  and  every  man  of  the  gun 
crew  was  either  killed  outright,  or  wounded.  My- 
self? It  is  nothing,  a  mere  scratch  on  the  arm. 
My  lieutenant  and  I  were  the  only  ones  not  badly 
hurt." 

As  he  spoke  he  nodded  in  the  direction  of  a  tall, 
fine-looking  Frenchman,  who  might  that  instant 
have  posed  for  a  portrait  of  a  hero,  so  striking  did 
he  look  in  his  battle-stained  uniform  of  a  sous- 


lieutenant,  upon  the  left  breast  of  which  Daniel  rec- 
ognized, among  several  ribbons,  the  green  and 
red  one  of  the  Croix  de  Guerre  and  the  blood-red 
one  of  the  Legion  d'Honneur.  His  hand  and  head 
were  bandaged.  Now  he  approached  them,  and 
Jean  came  to  attention,  a  little  unsteadily,  and 
saluted. 

"  Le  Jeune?"  the  newcomer  demanded,  sharply. 

"  Dying,  my  lieutenant." 

Under  his  tightly  curled  mustache,  a«  black  as  a 
raven's  wing,  the  officer's  strong  white  teeth 
clicked  together,  as  he  bit  off  a  muttered  oath. 
Then  he  scowled  at  Daniel  as  though  he  bore  him  a 
personal  grudge.  "  Dien,  these  Americans!"  he 
growled.  "  They  have  men  aplenty,  and  so  do  not 
care  how  they  throw  lives  away.  If  their  country 
had  been  bled  white  through  four  years,  as  mine 
has  been,  it  might  be  a  different  story,  but 
now  .  .  .  You  speak  French,  then?  "  he  added,  ap- 
parently reading  the  understanding  in  Daniel's 
eyes.  "  Let  me  tell  you  that  it  has  been  slaughter 
up  there,  Monsieur.  Picture  for  yourself  a  deep 
wood  rilled  with  underbrush  to  the  height  of  a 
man's  head,  and  with  Boche  trenches  and  machine 
gun  nests  as  thick  as  flies  in  summer.  We  sweep 
it  clear  at  last  —  your  countrymen,  and  our  guns. 
We  come  to  the  outer  edge.  Before  us  lies  a  plain 


THE  RED  RIVER  63 

a  kilometre  wide,  flat  as  a  table,  and  full  of  wire. 
Beyond  it  is  a  steep  hill  crowned  by  a  village,  shat- 
tered, yes,  but  still  bristling  with  German  guns. 
Two  forests,  like  that  through  which  we  have  just 
fought  our  way,  flank  it  to  right  and  left.  That  is 
Montfaucon.  The  command  is  '  Advance,  and  take 
it  by  assault,'  after  our  guns  have  paved  the  way 
with  steel.  Well,  it  is  taken,  but  behold !  "  He  in- 
dicated the  room,  and  its  wounded  and  dying  oc- 
cupants, with  a  passionate  sweep  of  his  arm. 

An  American  officer,  also  wounded,  had  been 
standing  near-by  and  listening.  Now  he  answered, 
with  thinly  veiled  sarcasm,  "  Yes,  it  is  taken,  and 
the  French  high  command  said  that  it  could  not  be, 
by  assault  .  .  .  that  it  was  impregnable." 

"  The  words  were  relative,  Monsieur.  Nothing 
is  impregnable  in  modern  warfare,  but  we,  at  least, 
have  had  to  learn  that  it  is  necessary  to  count  the 
cost  of  such  an  enterprise.  Your  country  has  not 
learned  that  lesson  .  .  .  yet.  But  pardon  me,  Mes- 
sieurs, I  spoke  hastily,  and  it  is  not  for  me  to 
criticize.  Perhaps  it  will  help  to  hasten  the  end. 

"  Nothing  can  be  done,  then,  to  save  this  boy  ?  " 
he  added,  addressing  the  doctor. 

"  Nothing,  lieutenant." 

"  Ah,  well,  after  all  he  is  merely  one  more  going 
beyond  to  join  the  million  of  his  comrades.  Take 


your  place  in  the  line,  and  have  your  arm  attended 
to."  The  command  was  addressed  to  Jean. 

"  But,  my  lieutenant,  I  am  not  badly  injured. 
May  I  not  stay  with  my  comrade,  until  .  .  .  ?  " 

His  superior  merely  nodded  sternly  toward  the 
waiting  line  of  "  walking  cases,"  and  Jean  reluc- 
tantly turned  to  join  it. 

Left  alone  for  the  moment,  Daniel  bent  over  the 
lad  whose  slow  return  to  consciousness  made  every 
breath  a  moan.  The  head  stirred  restlessly,  the 
eyelids  flickered,  and  the  pale  lips  moved.  Daniel 
believed  that  he  caught  the  sound  of  a  whispered 
word  and  bent  closer. 

"  Jean." 

"  Yes,  Henri,"  he  answered. 

"  Jean  ...  in  ...  the  pocket  .  .  .  tunic  .  .  . 
picture  ...  of  Joan."  The  cryptic  sentence  was 
uttered  very  slowly,  and  with  obvious  difficulty. 
He  arose,  found  the  torn  and  stained  coat  and 
slipped  his  hand  into  the  pocket  where  he  had  seen 
the  boy  place  the  picture-card.  As  his  fingers  came 
in  contact  with  it,  they  instinctively  drew  away,  for 
it  was  wet.  Then  he  overcame  his  momentary  re- 
pugnance and  brought  it  to  the  light.  There  was 
an  ugly,  jagged  hole  through  the  card,  but  neither 
it,  nor  the  dark  stain,  had  marred  the  girl's  sweet 
face. 


THE  RJED  RIVER  65 

Very  gently  he  laid  it  in  the  boy's  hand,  and 
closed  his  nerveless  fingers  upon  it. 

"Take  it  ...  Give  it  ...  her.  Promise." 
The  whispering  voice  trailed  off  into  silence.  Then, 
haltingly,  it  began  again.  "  Tell  .  .  .  tell  them 
.  .  .  all  .  .  .  '  Daniel  held  his  breath,  for  he 
thought  that  this  time  the  tortured  spirit  had  es- 
caped its  shattered  prison.  But  the  pulse  in  the 
lad's  wrist  still  fluttered,  and  the  voice  came  once 
more,  like  a  mere  echo  of  spoken  words.  "  Tell 
them  ...  I  ...  died  like  a  man  .  .  .  for 
.  .  .  France." 

Again  silence  followed.  Daniel  heard  a  footstep 
by  his  side,  and,  without  turning  his  head,  realized 
that  Jean  had  stolen  from  his  place  in  the  waiting 
line,  and  rejoined  him. 

"Joan!" 

Both  men  started  visibly,  for  the  word  had 
sprung  from  the  motionless  lips,  clear  and  strong, 
as  though  every  last  atom  of  physical  energy  in  the 
stricken  body  had  been  summoned  to  assist  its 
utterance.  There  was  a  mighty  yearning,  and  a 
strange  note  of  triumph,  likewise,  in  the  word. 

Wonder  on  their  countenances,  they  bent  to- 
gether over  the  still  form. 

"  It  is  finished."  Jean  spoke  in  a  low,  choked 
voice. 


66    THE  MAID  OF  MIRABELLE 

"  Yes.  How  strange  it  is  that  he  should  have 
called  aloud  like  that,  at  the  end.  It  was  the  name 
of  his  sister,  was  it  not  ?  " 

"  Yes.  But  I  think  that  he  was  rather  calling 
out  to  another  Joan,  the  Immortal  Maid.  Men  say 
that  she  stands  at  the  portals  of  Paradise,  with  her 
young  arms  stretched  out  to  welcome  home  the 
soldiers  of  her  beloved  France."  Jean's  voice  was 
deep  with  awe.  He  crossed  himself. 

"  Perhaps  .  .  .  perhaps  he  saw  her  standing 
there." 


CHAPTER  V 

BY   THE   POST 

"  HE  is !  He  is !  "  shrieked  Pierre,  his  face  red 
and  his  childish  voice  high  with  anger. 

"  He  is  not,"  came  the  positive  rejoinder,  in  a 
girl's  thin  tones. 

"  He  is,  I  say." 

"  Then  why  is  he  not  now  leading  the  armies  of 
France?  Tell  me  that,  thou  little  fool." 

"  Because  he  is  not  old  enough ;  and  I  am  not  a 
little  fool." 

"  No,  thou  art  a  great  fool  —  like  all  children, 
and  most  grown-ups,"  came  in  an  old,  cracked 
voice.  "  And  Rose  is  no  better.  Get  thee  home, 
evil  one,  before  I  lay  my  cane  about  thy  legs  for 
thus  teasing  the  little  man." 

Joan,  who  had  been  listening  with  amusement  in- 
side the  window,  now  glanced  out  in  time  to  see 
her  whom  the  village  called  "  Old  Barbette,"  a 
queer  little  deformed  old  woman,  make  a  threat- 
ening pass  with  her  stick  at  the  frail  white-faced 
girl,  whose  age  might  have  been  anything  from 

67 


eight  to  fourteen  years,  for  her  small  undernour- 
ished body  suggested  the  former,  and  her  elfish 
face  the  latter.  Then  she  turned  with  a  grimace, 
to  shake  her  cane  at  Pierre,  also.  He  started  back 
so  hastily  that  he  stumbled  and  fell,  and  when  the 
old  hag  broke  into  malicious  laughter,  the  small 
soldier  set  up  a  wail.  Joan  knocked  on  the  win- 
dow-pane with  her  thimble  and  beckoned  him  in, 
whereupon  he  hastily  dried  his  tears,  and,  with  an 
April  smile,  turned  and  trudged  up  the  little  path 
to  the  cottage  door. 

When  his  small  face,  besmutted  and  streaked 
with  tears,  beamed  through  the  doorway,  Joan 
called,  "  Come  hither,  my  little  one,  and  tell  me 
who  is,  and  who  is  not  what." 

"  It  is  my  brother  Jean  who  is  a  greater  soldier 
than  Marshal  Foch.  That  Rose  said  that  he  is  not, 
but  he  is  —  is  it  not  so,  Joan?" 

"If  we  think  so,  thou  and  I,  that  should  suffice. 
But  why  didst  thou  run  from  poor  old  Barbette? 
She  was  not  angry  with  thee." 

"  I  was  afraid,  for  she  is  a  witch,  and  if  she 
touches  one  with  her  stick  he  turns  into  a  toad," 
was  the  earnest  explanation. 

"Who  has  told  thee  that  foolish  story?" 

"  It  is  not  foolish,  it  is  true.  My  sisters  and  all 
the  children  say  so,  Joan." 


BY  THE  POST  69 

"They  are  fooling  thee,  little  Pierre.  She  is 
only  a  poor,  and  very  lonely,  old  woman,  and  thou 
shouldst  try  to  be  kind  to  her,  instead  of  calling  out 
names,  as  I  have  heard  thee  and  the  others  do. 
Come,  wilt  thou  promise?  If  thou  wilt  I  shall  give 
thee  a  piece  of  newly  baked  bread." 

"With  sugar  on  it,  my  Joan?"  the  child  de- 
manded, appealingly. 

"  Joan! "  came  from  the  next  room  in  the  voice 
of  her  mother. 

The  girl  made  a  little  grimace,  but  answered, 
"  No,  not  to-day,  my  little  one,  but  something  even 
better.  I  have  been  saving  a  tiny  piece  of  sweet- 
ened chocolate  for  thee.  Wait,  and  I  will  seek  it 
in  my  room." 

She  was  prevented  by  the  sound  of  the  postman's 
whistle,  and,  instead,  flew  to  the  door  to  receive  the 
letter  which  the  grizzled,  one-armed  veteran  thrust 
into  her  eager  hand. 

"  A  letter  from  our  Henri,  a  fat  one,  my  mother. 
Come  quickly,  and  I  will  read  it  aloud  to  thee," 
she  cried. 

"  But,  Joan,  thou  saidst  that  thou  ..." 

"  Canst  thou  not  wait  in  patience  for  a  few  mo- 
ments, little  glutton?  Here,  here  is  the  book  at 
whose  pictures  thou  lovest  to  look.  See  if  thou 
canst  not  be  quiet  for  a  little  while." 


70     THE  MAID  OF  MIRABELLE 

Joan's  mother  came  hurrying  in,  as  she  tore  open 
the  yellow  envelope  with  its  military  frank,  and  be- 
gan to  read: 

"  '  MY  DEAREST  MOTHER,  FATHER  AND  SISTERS, 

"  '  This  is  the  last  letter  that  I  shall  be  able  to 
write  to  you  for  some  time,  I  fear,  for  to-morrow 
my  battery  goes  into  action  on  the  new  front. 

"  '  We  have  marched  many  kilometres  since  I  last 
wrote  you,  and  where  we  are  now,  there  are  a 
great  many  Americans,  more  than  I  have  ever  seen 
before,  and  every  one  says  that  we  shall  drive  the 
Boche  out  of  our  beloved  France  soon,  and  bring 
an  end  to  the  war. 

"  '  I  pray  the  dear  God  that  it  may  be  so,  for  I  am 
tired  of  it  all,  and  long  to  be  at  home  again.  It  is 
not  that  I  do  not  like  the  fighting,  when  all  is  ex- 
citement, but  now  the  cold  winter  is  coming  again, 
and  the  mud  is  already  beginning  to  grow  deep, 
and  there  is  much  discomfort.  For  myself,  I  do 
not  care  so  much,  but  I  pity  the  older  men  who 
have  now  fought  four  years  and  were  some  of 
them  in  the  army  for  three  before  the  war  began. 
To  be  a  soldier  seven  years !  I  hope  that  it  will  not 
be  my  fate. 

"  '  The  Americans  complain  bitterly  of  the  mud, 
and  I  think  that  their  great  country  must  be  one  of 
perpetual  sunshine  and  flowers.  How  would  you 
like  to  have  me  take  you  there  —  all  of  you  —  after 
the  war  is  finished?  There  is  undoubtedly  much 


BY  THE  POST  71 

money  to  be  gained  there,  for  all  Americans  are 
rich  —  why,  their  poilus  are  paid  more  than  five 
francs  a  a  day,  whereas  we,  who  have  fought  so 
much  longer,  receive  only  25  centimes,*  and  a  short 
time  ago  received  but  five.8 

"  *  Would  it  not  be  fine  to  be  rich,  as  they  are  ? 
But,  no,  I  am  only  dreaming  pleasant  dreams,  for 
we  men  must  all  stay  and  help  our  poor  France, 
which  will  need  us  as  much  in  peace  as  in  war,  she 
has  lost  so  many  of  her  sons  already.  Yes,  I  must 
stay,  even  though  you  write  me  that  the  cotton 
factory,  where  father  and  I  used  to  work,  now  em- 
ploys but  sixty,  instead  of  five  hundred,  since  the 
coal  and  cotton  are  so  hard  to  get.  What  is  our 
country  going  to  do,  with  her  fields  and  cities  in 
ruins,  her  machinery  stolen  from  her,  and  no 
money  with  which  to  buy  raw  materials? 

"  '  Ah  well,  perhaps  thou,  Joan,  wilt  go  to  Amer- 
ica as  the  wife  of  some  rich  man.  How  wouldst 
thou  like  that?' 

"  I  should  not  like  it  at  all,"  asserted  the  girl, 
her  eyes  flashing.  "  I  am  French  and  can,  perhaps, 
help  bear  the  burdens  of  France  as  well  as  a  man." 

"  What  Jean  says,  is  true,"  answered  her  mother, 
sorrowfully.  "  We  shall  need  every  man  to  help 
rebuild  that  which  has  been  destroyed,  after  the 
Boche  have  been  beaten." 

dollar.    2 Five  cents.     'One  cent 


72     THE  MAID  OF  MIRABELLE 

Joan  nodded,  and  continued. 

"  '  Yes,  it  is  hard  to  realize  that  we  are  so  poor, 
when  the  Americans  are  all  so  rich.  I  have  ac- 
tually seen  them  lighting  their  cigarettes  with  fifty 
centime,  and  even  with  franc,  pieces  of  our  paper 
money,  and  laughing  about  it.  Surely  no  French- 
man, no  matter  how  much  he  possessed,  would  do 
that' 

"  Why,  it  is  a  crime,"  cried  Joan,  angrily.  "  To 
think  of  their  burning  up  good  money  when  we  need 
it  so  much,  and  have  to  work  so  hard  for  a  few 
francs. 

"  '  Yet,  in  spite  of  this,  they  insist  that  we  over- 
charge them  for  everything.  I  have  talked  often 
about  it  with  one  who  is  encamped  with  us.  He 
is  of  French  descent  and  speaks  our  language  flu- 
ently, and  I  tell  him  that,  if  it  is  true,  our  people 
cannot  be  blamed,  and  that  he  would  do  the  same 
thing  if  he  were  in  our  place.  He  laughs,  and  says, 
"  Perhaps."  If  another  American  ever  comes  to 
stay  at  our  home,  as  did  the  one  last  spring,  I  hope 
that  thou  wilt  remember  this,  my  mother.' 

"  But  no,"  said  the  girl,  earnestly.  "  Henri 
reasons  like  a  man,  and  from  one  standpoint  is 
right,  perhaps ;  but  we  would  never  do  it,  would  we, 
my  mother?  Have  not  the  Americans  come  to  aid  us 


BY  THE  POST  73 

in  the  hour  of  our  need,  and  is  there  anything  that 
we  should  not  do  for  them  ?  " 

"  Do  not  interrupt  thy  reading  so  often,  Joan. 
I  want  to  hear  the  letter  from  my  son." 

"  '  They  are  splendid  fellows  —  these  Americans  ; 
brave,  strong  and  full  of  fun.  I  admire  them,  al- 
though they,  like  all  the  world,  have  faults  which  I 
do  not  like.  Sometimes  I  become  angry  when  they 
speak  slightingly  of  our  women,  but  then  I  remem- 
ber that  they  see  few,  except  the  bad  ones,  who  are 
always  near  the  camps  and  about  the  city  streets. 
Still,  it  is  not  fair  to  judge  all,  by  a  small  number, 
and  have  they  then  not  the  same  kinds  in  America? 
But  perhaps  it  is  natural  to  think  as  they  do. 

"  '  Then  there  is  another  thing.  When  we  drink 
a  little  liqueur  we  sip  it  slowly,  for  it  is  our  habit, 
and  besides,  liqueur  costs  much  money,  but  they 
toss  off  at  one  gulp  a  glassful  that  costs  a  franc, 
and  then  perhaps  a  second  and  a  third.  Then  they 
are  zig-zag,  but  instead  of  wanting  to  sing  and 
dance,  as  we  Frenchmen  do,  they  often  start  to 
fight  among  themselves  or  with  us,  as  though  it 
were  not  enough  to  fight  with  the  enemy.  And 
many  of  our  men  are  learning  to  do  the  same, 
which  is  sad. 

"  '  While  I  am  writing  of  the  Americans ;  I  met 
one  the  other  night  while  we  were  on  our  way 
through  XXXXXXX  (deleted  by  censor).  Very 
late  in  the  night  he  arrived  at  the  Foyer  du  Soldat 
where  Jean  and  I  were  resting,  and  we  had  a  very 


74     THE  MAID  OF  MIRABELLE 

pleasant  talk  with  him.  He  is  not  a  soldier,  for  he 
belongs  to  the  Society  of  Friends,  which  does  not 
believe  in  fighting,  but  .  .  .  ' 

"  Are  they  then  cowards,  that  they  will  not 
fight?"  exclaimed  Joan.  "If  our  Frenchmen  had 
not  fought,  where  would  we  have  been  to-day  — 
what  would  the  world  have  been?  /  should  not 
have  liked  him,  no  matter  how  pleasant  he  might 
have  been.  Of  that  I  am  quite  sure." 

"  And  I  am  quite  sure  that  thou  art  very  young 
and  foolish,  Joan,"  her  mother  replied.  "  All  men 
cannot  fight.  There  are  many  other  important 
things  to  be  done,  even  in  wartime,  and  who  knows 
if  they  are  not  the  harder  to  do,  when  the  battle  is 
calling." 

"  Perhaps.  But  if  I  were  a  man  .  .  .  "  re- 
sponded Joan,  and  her  lips  closed  tightly. 

"Continue,  then." 

"  *  ...  but  they  are  here  to  help  France  in  her  task 
of  reconstruction,  and  I  have  heard  that  they  are 
'loing  wonderful  things.' ' 

:t  There,  what  did  I  tell  thee?  "  spoke  her  mother. 

"  *  I  showed  him  thy  picture,  Joan,  but  what  he 
said  about  it  I  shall  not  tell  thee.  And  he  showed 


BY  THE  POST  75 

me  the  likeness  of  his  sister,  also.  She  was  very 
beautiful.  Perhaps,  after  all,  I  shall  go  to  Amer- 
ica, who  knows  ? ' 

"  Now  I  am  angry  because  he  showed  my  picture 
to  the  man  who  would  not  fight,"  said  Joan,  with 
her  dark  eyes  flashing. 

"  Well,  why  dost  thou  not  read  on  ?  "  demanded 
the  other,  as  the  girl  paused.  Joan  flushed  at  the 
question  and  continued  hastily,  in  a  somewhat 
lower  voice: 

"  *  My  comrade,  Jean,  can  talk  of  nothing  but 
thee,  Joan,  and  of  his  little  visit  to  Mirabelle.  He 
joins  me  in  sending  to  all  of  you  the  sincerest  ex- 
pression of  regard,  to  which  I  add  that  of  affec- 
tion. Henri.'  " 

"  The  battle  is  again  terrible.  God  grant  that  he 
come  through  it  unharmed,  my  dear  boy,"  whis- 
pered mother  le  Jeune. 

"  Why  should  we  fear  the  contrary,  my  mother? 
He  has  gone  through  almost  the  whole  of  the  war 
unscratched,  and  his  letter  shows  that  he  is  still 
well.  Pierre,  thou  hast  been  very  patient.  Now  I 
shall  go  to  get  the  chocolate  for  thee."  With  a  pat 
on  his  close-cropped  hair,  Joan  departed,  but  as 
she  mounted  the  narrow  stairway  she  heard  the 


76     THE  MAID  OF  MIRABELLE 

postman's  whistle  again,  and  paused  to  hear  her 
mother  greet  him,  and  his  reply,  "  A  thousand  par- 
dons, Madame,  but  here  is  another  letter  which  had 
been  misplaced,  so  that  I  overlooked  it  when  I 
passed  the  first  time." 

Singing  blithely,  the  girl  tripped  down  the  stairs 
with  the  tiny  square  of  precious  chocolate  in  her 
hand,  but  as  she  entered  the  door  she  was  brought 
to  a  sudden  stop. 

Her  mother  was  seated  in  a  chair  with  her  thin 
arms  stretched  out  across  the  table  and  her  head 
buried  upon  them.  An  open  letter  was  desperately 
clenched  in  one  hand. 

"Mother!" 

"  Oh,  my  God,  my  God,  my  God !  Henri,  thy 
brother  .  .  .  my  only  boy  .  .  .  ' 

"  What  has  happened  ?  What  is  the  matter  ? 
Tell  me  quickly,  mother."  Joan  ran  forward  and 
dropped  on  her  knees  beside  the  silently  shaking 
form. 

"  Dead." 

"Dead?  Oh,  no!  oh,  merciful  God,  no!  Why, 
it  cannot  be.  See,  I  have  his  own  letter  in  my 
hand." 

The  other  passed  her  the  brief  official  notice. 
She  read  it  through  with  eyes  which  grew  bigger 
and  bigger,  although  no  tears  came. 


BY  THE  POST  77 

The  unnatural  silence  in  the  little  room  was 
broken  by  Pierre's  whisper,  half  frightened,  half 
imploring-,  "  Joan,  may  I  not  have  my  chocolate  ? 
See,  you  are  squeezing  it  all  up  in  your  hand." 


CHAPTER  VI 
NOVEMBER  THE  ELEVENTH 

PEACE! 

Or  if  peace  itself  had  not  actually  come,  at  least 
the  fighting  was  ended  for  a  time. 

Like  a  fire,  running  wild  through  dry  grass, 
spread  the  news  that  the  rumored  armistice  had 
really  been  declared,  an  hour  before  noon.  The  very 
winds  paradoxically  bore  the  tidings,  for,  since  that 
hour,  they  had  ceased  to  come  weighted  with  the 
rumblings  of  the  battle,  which  had  now  receded  far 
to  the  north. 

As  was  the  case  with  most  of  the  grim  fighters, 
Daniel  found  himself  too  weary  of  body,  too  soul- 
encompassed  by  ugly  sights,  to  respond  to  the  an- 
nouncement other  than  by  drawing  a  deep  breath  of 
relief  —  which  sounded  like  a  sigh.  There  is  such 
a  thing  as  being,  both  physically  and  in  point  of 
time,  too  near  a  great  event  to  appreciate  its  real 
significance.  So,  at  first,  was  it  with  him,  upon  the 
cessation  of  hostilities.  It  meant  merely  the  end 
of  the  red  tide  which  still  flowed  in,  although  in  a 

78 


NOVEMBER  THE  ELEVENTH  79 

diminished  stream,  for  its  course  had  been  in  part 
diverted  to  a  more  northerly  channel. 

This  thought,  however,  brought  its  own  reaction. 
As  a  man  who  has  valiantly  scaled  the  sides  of  a 
precipice,  unfalteringly,  and  without  realization  of 
his  danger  and  fatigue,  so  long  as  his  eyes  are  fixed 
on  the  rocky  ascent,  sometimes  sways  and  becomes 
weak  with  dizziness  upon  reaching  his  goal,  so  it 
was  with  Daniel.  Sleep,  like  a  potent  drug  whose 
effects  have  been  stayed  for  a  time,  now  over- 
powered him,  and  he  stumbled  blindly  as  he  walked 
to  his  cot  bed,  upon  which  he  threw  himself  fully 
dressed. 

Neither  joy  over  the  end  of  the  slaughter,  nor  any 
of  the  gloomy  forebodings  that  perhaps  a  terrible 
mistake  had  been  made  in  that  fateful  hour,  which 
were  later  to  be  forced  upon  his  mind,  then  dis- 
turbed him. 

But,  tired  as  he  was,  refreshing  rest  was  denied 
him.  His  dreams  carried  on  the  nightmare  work  in 
which  he  had  so  long  spent  himself,  unsparingly. 
Sleep  made  a  bungling  job  of  her  knitting,  and  the 
noise  of  each  passing  vehicle  caused  him  to  start, 
with  the  vague  idea  that  he  was  needed  outside  to 
assist  in  the  removal  of  its  cargo  of  halt,  lame  and 
blind.  An  hour  of  this  doubtful  repose  was  brought 
to  a  termination  by  the  rattling  stop  of  a  motor  car, 


80    THE  MAID  OF  MIRAEELLE 

and  the  sound  of  his  own  name  spoken  outside  the 
barrack  building.  Like  a  call  to  battle,  it  brought 
Daniel  to  his  feet,  wide  awake,  despite  his  weari- 
ness. His  legs  carried  him  unsteadily  to  the  door. 

By  the  side  of  an  army  automobile  stood  four 
French  officers,  their  left  sleeves  marked  with  the 
galons  of  a  captain,  two  lieutenants  and  an  aspirant. 
All  of  them  were  talking  and  laughing  hilariously, 
and  Daniel  had  no  need  of  being  highly  trained  in 
deduction  in  order  to  decide  that  champagne  had 
taken  the  place  of  the  mild  vin  ordinaire  at  their 
recent  dejeuner. 

One  of  them  hailed  his  appearance  with  an  en- 
thusiastic, "  Ha,  my  young  puritanical  friend,  be- 
hold the  '  day  of  glory  has  arrived/  "  whereupon 
his  three  companions  took  up  the  words,  and  chanted 
the  rest  of  the  Marseillaise  full-throatedly,  to  the 
hearty  applause  of  several  doughboys  and  hospital 
attendants,  who  formed  an  amused  group  of 
listeners. 

The  one  who  had  addressed  Daniel  by  name,  was 
the  lieutenant  whose  acquaintance  he  had  first  made 
on  the  dark  afternoon  when  the  brother  of  the  un- 
seen girl,  Joan  —  the  photograph  of  whom  he  still 
carried  with  that  of  Faith  over  his  heart  —  had 
briefly  reentered  his  life  only  to  depart  therefrom, 
forever.  The  continued  presence  of  that  picture  had 


NOVEMBER  THE  ELEVENTH  81 

more  than  once  troubled  his  conscience,  for  he  knew 
that  he  might,  and  perhaps  should,  have  passed  it 
over  to  Jean,  for  whom  it  had  obviously  been  in- 
tended. And  he  could  not  comfort  himself  with  the 
excuse  that  it  had  not  been  possible.  The  young 
poiliSs  wound  had  proved  to  be  more  serious  than 
he  would  himself  admit,  and  for  several  days  he  had 
been  kept  in  the  rude  hospital,  burnt  up  with  fever, 
before  the  inflammation  had  been  conquered. 

It  was  during  those  days  that  Daniel  had  grown  to 
know  Lieutenant  Villier,  for  the  Frenchman  had 
come  several  times  to  have  his  own  minor  injuries 
dressed,  and  never  had  he  failed  to  stay  and  talk  for 
a  little  while  with  his  orderly,  Jean,  always  evidenc- 
ing that  close  and  friendly  esprit  de  corps,  which 
exists  between  French  brothers-in-arms  of  whatever 
their  rank,  to  a  far  greater  degree  than  in  any  other 
army  in  the  world.  And  at  these  visits  he  had  also 
fallen  into  the  habit  of  chatting  with  Daniel.  For 
some  reason,  he  had  seemed  to  take  an  instantaneous 
fancy  to  the  young  auxiliary  worker  —  perhaps  it 
was  the  psychological  attraction  of  Nature's  oppo- 
sites,  for  he  was  ordinarily  as  gaily  volatile  as 
Daniel  was  serious.  In  any  event  he  obviously  en- 
joyed conversing  with  the  Friend,  and  found  keen 
amusement  in  leading  him  on  to  haltingly  expressed 
comments  upon  the  different  aspects  of  French  life 


82     THE  MAID  OF  MIRABELLE 

which  were  at  variance  with  what  he  had  known  at 
home. 

There  had  been  times,  during  these  discussions, 
that  Daniel  had  come  to  believe  that  the  Frenchman 
could  not  be  serious,  forgetful  of  his  decorations  for 
bravery,  and  his  bitter  comments  at  the  moment  of 
their  first  meeting,  but  the  American's  growing  irri- 
tation over  the  other's  perpetual  levity  in  dealing 
with  the  most  serious  subjects,  had  been  definitely 
dispelled  one  afternoon,  as  the  result  of  a  chance 
remark  which  he  had  himself  made. 

Villier  had  been  laughingly  quizzing  him,  before 
several  others,  until  his  habitual  self-restraint  had 
given  place  to  exasperation  at  the  man's  apparently 
frivolous  attitude  toward  everything  in  life. 

"Ah,  Monsieur,  but  why  blame  me?"  the  lieu- 
tenant had  cried.  "  All  the  world  knows  that  the 
French  are  a  light  race,  is  it  not  so?  " 

"  Yes,  they  were  very  light  ...  at  Verdun," 
Daniel  had  retorted  sarcastically. 

To  his  intense  surprise,  the  lieutenant  had  gripped 
his  hand  hard,  and  for  an  instant  the  American  had 
looked  through  the  windows  of  his  soul,  and  found 
there  a  depth  which  he  had  not  suspected. 

"  Ah,  Verdun,"  Villier  had  half  whispered,  and 
turned  quickly  away. 

"  It  was  at  Verdun  that  he  won  the  Medaille 


NOVEMBER  THE  ELEVENTH  83 

Militaire  —  for  exceptional  bravery,  Monsieur,"  ex- 
plained Jean,  when  Villier  had  departed. 

Thereafter   the   strange    friendship   had   grown 

apace. 

******** 

"  What,  you  asleep  at  this  hour,  and  on  this  day  ?" 
the  lieutenant  demanded,  as  Daniel  appeared. 
"  Mon  Dieu,  these  Americans,  they  have  utterly  no 
sense  of  the  appropriate!  Messieurs,  behold  the 
young  moralist  of  whom  I  have  spoken  to  you  often. 
He  has  appointed  himself  my  conscience,  to  remind 
me  daily  that  —  in  the  words  of  one  of  his  own 
poets  — 

"'Life  is  real!    Life  is  earnest!' 

"  Ah,  but  you  cannot  fool  me,  Monsieur  Steele. 
Solemnity  sits  ill  upon  your  countenance,  my  Chris- 
tian Friend,  for  your  eyes  confess  a  devil  within. 
Come,  for  to-day  you  must  doff  the  dun  cloak  of 
morality  and  don  the  many-colored  mantle  of  fri- 
volity, with  us." 

As  he  chattered,  he  pulled  the  half -laughing,  half- 
protesting  American  toward  the  waiting  automobile. 

"  Do  you  shrink  ?  Have  no  fear  then,  my  pure 
one;  you  cannot  be  led  very  far  from  the  paths  of 
rectitude  where  we  are  going  to  take  you,  for  there 
are  no  women  there.  My  young  friend  is  mortally 
afraid  of  the  women  —  or  rather,  he  is  mortally 


84    THE  MAID  OF  MIRABELLE 

afraid  of  himself,  when  they  are  around,"  he  went 
on,  addressing  the  laughing  company. 

Daniel  was  not  in  a  mood  for  jests,  and  an- 
swered rather  curtly,  "  I'm  not  worried.  I  haven't 
seen  any  of  your  French  women  yet,  who  could  play 
the  siren  to  my  mariner."  But  instantly  he  was 
contrite  and  apologized  for  his  discourtesy. 

"  Oh,  that  is  all  right,  I'm  not  offended,"  laughed 
the  lieutenant,  breezily.  "  I  am  well  aware  of  the 
idea  that  most  Americans  have  gained  of  our  wo- 
men, judging  all  by  their  association  with  the  gri- 
settes  of  the  cities,  and  the  camp  followers,  neither 
of  which  exist  in  America,  the  land  of  the  Pure,  of 
course,"  he  added  with  a  tinge  of  sarcasm.  "  Per- 
haps some  day  you'll  learn  that  they  exist  for,  as 
well  as  off,  our  visitors,  by  whose  bounty  they 
live  in  luxury,  whereas  they  would  starve  to  death 
if  they  depended  upon  their  countrymen.  To  be 
sure,  passions  of  all  kinds  grow  hotter  under  the 
fiery  breath  of  war,  and  we  Latins  are  —  I  rejoice 
to  say  —  a  race  somewhat  more  warm-blooded  than 
you  frigid  Anglo-Saxons;  but  just  wait  until  I  in- 
troduce you  some  day  to  a  real  girl,  perhaps  some 
village  lass  with  the  fascination  of  true  simplicity 
added  to  that  which  is  natural  with  every  woman  of 
France  —  then  see  if  you  do  not  have  to  keep  a 
tight  check-rein  on  your  plunging  heart.  I  have  an 


NOVEMBER  THE  ELEVENTH  85 

idea  that  you  are  human  inside,  Monsieur  Steele, 
despite  the  meaning  of  your  surname  —  if  I  have 
not  forgotten  the  little  English  that  I  learned  at  the 
University." 

This  time  Daniel  could  not  but  join  in  the  laughter 
at  his  expense. 

"  But  to-day  you  need  not  be  afraid,  as  I  have  told 
you.  We  go  to  join  in  the  celebration  of  the  full 
deliverance  of  Verdun,  the  Portal  of  France  — 
which  my  comrades  and  I  helped  to  hold  for  over 
a  year.  We  have  secured  a  permit  to  enter  the  city, 
and  it  is  our  wish  that  you  accompany  us.  What  do 
you  say  ?  " 

Lieutenant  Villier's  spirit  was  infectious.  The 
weariness  seemed  to  slip  from  Daniel,  and,  almost 
before  he  realized  it,  he  had  allowed  himself  to  be 
pulled  inside  the  car,  by  boisterous  friendly  hands. 
Why,  after  all,  should  he  not  go?  His  conscience 
was  his  only  dictator,  he  had  surely  earned  brief 
recreation,  it  was  a  fete  day  the  world  around,  and 
the  opportunity  was  verily  one  of  a  kind  which 
knocks  but  once  in  a  life-time  —  it  never  could  hap- 
pen again.  To  cap  all  the  thoughts  which  flashed 
through  his  mind,  was  the  magic-bearing  name 
VERDUN,  which,  in  h'is  imagination,  had  long 
stood  as  the  epitome  of  romantic  faith  and  unfalter- 
ing courage. 


86     THE  MAID  OF  MIRABELLE 

An  instant  later  they  were  jolting  eastward,  over 
roads  that  momentarily  grew  rougher  and  more 
shell-pocked. 

"  It  will  be  time  enough  if  we  reach  the  city  to- 
ward evening,"  said  Lieutenant  Villier.  "  Let  us 
make  a  detour  to  the  north,  and  show  the  man  of 
peace  a  little  of  what  was,  only  yesterday,  one  of 
the  great  battlefields  of  all  time.  Besides,  he  has 
come  to  help  our  France  build  anew  on  the  shattered 
foundations  of  the  old,  and  it  will  be  an  opportunity 
for  him  to  learn,  first-hand,  something  of  the  magni- 
tude of  the  task.  Drive  to  Chattan court  and  thence 
via  Charney,"  he  ordered  the  chauffeur.  "  The  road 
is  scarcely  a  Champs  Elysees,  but  it  should  at  least 
be  passable  for  a  '  flivver.' '  He  pronounced  it 
"  fleever." 

In  time  they  reached,  and  crawled  up,  a  long  bar- 
ren slope,  and,  at  a  word  from  Villier,  the  car  was 
brought  to  a  stop  on  the  summit.  Instantly,  the 
continued  hilarity  of  the  party  was  stilled,  as  the 
scene  stretching  far  before  them  brought  to  the 
minds  of  all,  except  Daniel,  fresh  recollections  of  the 
horrors  which  it  had  held  for  them  in  the  days  that 
were  past,  and  which  could  never  wholly  be  erased. 
Without  fully  understanding,  the  American  felt  and 
shared  their  mood,  although  all  that  his  eyes  saw  was 
a  wide  stretch  of  drear  November  landscape,  backed 


by  distant  hills  and  broken  by  an  occasional  tiny 
hamlet,  too  far  away  for  him  to  realize  that  none 
but  Death  dwelt  within  its  walls.  Later,  his  eyes 
made  out  stretches  of  tangled  barbed  wire  at  inter- 
vals on  the  billowy  surface  of  the  nearer  fields,  and, 
far  ahead,  patches  of  silver  which  marked  the  ser- 
pentine windings  of  the  Meuse  through  the  low  flat 
valley.  Just  beyond  it,  a  thread-like  scar  of  black 
showed  the  course  of  a  dried-up  canal,  whose  tiny 
bordering  trees  were  only  half  standing. 

A  speechless  moment  followed;  then  his  host 
stretched  out  his  arm  toward  the  left,  and  said, 
"  The  hill  yonder  is  Number  304.  Just  to  the  right 
of  it  '  le  Mart  Homme '  —  Deadman's  Hill." 

The  announcement  stirred  Daniel's  mind  to  a 
recollection  of  the  newspaper  stories  which  he  had 
read  at  college,  nearly  three  years  before  —  how,  on 
the  once  heavily  wooded  slopes  of  that  historic  hill, 
two  mighty  armies  had  swayed  back  and  forth,  back 
and  forth,  like  giants  locked  in  a  death  grapple,  with 
their  daily  gains  or  losses  measured  in  yards. 

"  '  Deadman's  Hill' — well  named,  indeed !  "  The 
lieutenant  spoke  his  bitter  musings  aloud.  "  Do  you 
chance  to  know  how  many  of  the  flower  of  France 
laid  down  their  lives  on  those  slopes,  Monsieur?  " 

Daniei  shook  his  head  in  mute  denial. 

"  More  than  fifty  thousand,  Monsieur  Steele." 


88    THE  MAID  OF  MIRABELLE 

Fifty  thousand,  dead  for  France  on  that  one  small 
hill,  and  as  many  more  clad  in  the  gray-green  of  the 
enemy  on  the  other  side!  "  It  is  horrible,"  he  an- 
swered, in  awed  tones. 

Lieutenant  Villier  laughed,  but  without  mirth. 
He  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "  Fifty  thousand?  A 
mere  bagatelle  as  we  have  had  to  count  our  dead. 
In  the  defence  of  Verdun  we  sacrificed  ten  times 
that  number  in  killed  alone,  but  they  did  not  pass, 
those  Boche,  and  they  left  seven  hundred  thousand 
to  rot  there.  Oh,  we  who  fought  on  Deadman's  Hill, 
and  on  the  slopes  'below  the  fort  de  Vaux,  know  the 
full  meaning  of  the  words,  '  wholesale  slaughter.' 
Remembering  that,  perhaps  you  will  forgive  me  for 
speaking  as  I  did  about  the  attack  on  Montfaucon. 
It  was  not  that  I  lacked  in  admiration  for  the  splen- 
did courage  of  our  American  allies,  but  that  I  could 
not  forget  that  France  has  lost  nearly  a  million  and 
a  half  dead,  already,  and  your  troops  less  than  the 
number  of  ours  who  fell  on  that  one  hill  yonder." 

"  Yes,  I  understand,"  Daniel  rejoined.  "  Well,  it 
is  ended,  thank  God.  The  world  can  now  beat  its 
swords  into  plowshares." 

"  For  a  time  it  is  ended,  yes,  and  none  too  soon 
for  France.  To-day  we  can  laugh  and  sing,  and 
turn  our  eyes  once  more  toward  the  pleasures  that 
Peace  holds  in  her  lap.  But  do  not  think  that 


NOVEMBER  THE  ELEVENTH  89 

France  is  foolish  enough  to  beat  her  victorious 
swords  into  anything.  There,  over  those  dark  hills, 
the  filthy  serpent  still  lies,  scotched,  but  not  yet 
killed.  Unless  a  miracle  occurs,  our  sons  will  have 
to  gird  their  loins  for  battle  as  did  their  sires. 

"And  when  France  ever  puts  her  trust  in  the 
word  of  a  Boche  —  she  deserves  to  die! " 


CHAPTER  VII 

WHERE    HISTORY   WAS   MADE 

"  WE  will  go  on,"  he  said  at  length,  but  in  spite 
of  his  declared  intention  of  forgetting  the  past, 
filled  with  tragic  shadows,  and  thinking  only  of  the 
sunlight  breaking  through  the  clouds  ahead,  the 
memory-provoking  sights  on  every  side  proved  too 
strong  for  Lieutenant  Villier.  A  man  may  try  to 
think  and  to  talk  of  anything  but  war  while  he  is  in 
the  midst  of  it,  but  when  it  is  over  his  thoughts  irre- 
sistibly revert,  and  at  times  must  be  given  expres- 
sion. So  it  was  that  afternoon,  and  as  the  car 
started  its  jolting  descent  towards  Chattancourt  and 
the  river  valley,  he  and  his  companions  fell  to  rem- 
iniscing instinctively,  and  Daniel  sat  silent  and  en- 
thralled. For  the  talk  of  these  men  who  had  lived 
history,  brought  home  to  him,  more  than  any  printed 
story  ever  could,  the  reality  of  what  had  seemed  like 
a  shuddering  dream. 

The  lieutenant  began  by  pointing  out  a  hill  be- 
yond, and  slightly  lower  than  that  of  the  Dead 

90 


WHERE  HISTORY  WAS  MADE    91 

Men.  "  There  is  Cumieres,  where  his  all-mighti- 
ness, the  Crown  Prince,  had  his  famous  concrete 
dugout,  from  the  security  of  which  he  was  to  view 
the  fall  of  Verdun  that  was  to  end  the  war.  His 
eyesight  proved  remarkably  bad,"  he  added  with  a 
short  laugh.  "  They  tell  me  that  it  is  not  so  big  or 
so  magnificent  as  fable  has  already  begun  to  picture 
it,  but  it  was  perfectly  safe.  Oh,  yes,  his  precious 
life  was  never  in  any  danger  there,  and  what  did  he 
care  for  the  lives  of  others  ?  '  I  have  another  mil- 
lion men  whom  I  am  willing  to  sacrifice  to  take 
Verdun,'  he  said.  Do  you  remember,  my  captain, 
how  they  broke  like  gray-green  storm  waves  over  the 
crest  of  the  ravine  before  Douaumont?" 

The  one  addressed  nodded,  his  eyes  flashing  in 
recollection. 

"  Our  poilus  in  the  trenches  mowed  them  down, 
time  after  time,  until  the  barrels  of  their  machine 
guns  became  too  hot  to  touch,  and  they  fell  asleep 
from  sheer  exhaustion.  Oh,  he  was  a  noble  strate- 
gist, was  Willie.  Look,  there  is  Douaumont,  the 
highest  elevation  on  the  horizon  ahead  —  no,  a  little 
more  to  the  right.  Of  course  you  cannot  see  the  fort, 
for  it  is  all  underground,  except  for  a  conical  steel 
turret  or  two.  Even  the  high  granite-walled  moat 
has  been  obliterated  by  the  shell  fire  now.  Brrr,  but 
it's  cold  and  horribly  damp  inside  those  corridors. 


92     THE  MAID  OF  MIRABELLE 

yet  men  actually  lived  there,  month  after  month, 
scarcely  ever  seeing  the  light." 

"  The  Boche  finally  succeeded  in  capturing  it, 
didn't  they?  "  queried  Daniel,  not  quite  sure  of  his 
history. 

"  Yes,  by  means  of  a  trick,  but  it  took  them  seven 
months  of  constant  fighting  to  get  it,  the  fort  de 
Vaux,  and  work  their  way  step  by  step  down  the 
slope  on  this  side  to  the  village  of  Fleury  —  I'd  like 
to  set  you  down  at  the  crossroads  there  and  ask  you 
to  locate  that  hamlet,  which  once  housed  seven 
hundred  souls.  One  year's  growth  of  grass  and 
weeds  has  completely  covered  every  vestige  of  what 
remains  of  it,"  said  the  captain. 

"  Ah,  but  you  haven't  told  him  the  glorious  sequel 
to  the  tale,  my  captain,"  interrupted  Villier.  "  When 
our  General  Petain  was  able  to  assemble  something 
approximating  an  equal  number  of  troops  to  that  of 
the  enemy,  and  sufficient  ammunition  to  warrant  an 
attempt  to  recapture  them,  we  accomplished  it  in 
just  three  hours." 

"  Yes,  but  you  should  get  Lieutenant  Villier  to 
tell  you  about  the  fight  in  the  trenches  outside  the 
fort  de  Vaux:  It  was  there  that  the  fiercest  battle 
of  the  whole  war  was  waged.  Do  you  remember 
how  they  came  through  the  pass  from  the  valley  of 
the  Woevre?" 


WHERE  HISTORY  WAS  MADE    93 

"  Am  I  likely  ever  to  forget  it?  "  The  lieutenant 
turned  to  Daniel.  "  I'm  no  historian,  and  if  you 
want  to  read  a  masterly  story  of  that  inferno,  you 
must  get  Captain  Bordeaux's  book,  '  Les  Derniers 
Jours  du  Fort  de  Vaux'  but  if  you  wish  I  will  give 
you  an  outline  of  the  fight  —  you  may  then  be  better 
able  to  appreciate  the  story  of  the  immortal  city  to- 
ward which  we  are  headed.  I  do  not  know  whether 
or  not  it  is  so  in  your  case,  but  I  have  found  that 
many  of  your  countrymen  imagine  that  the  so- 
called  battle,  which  was  a  real  war  in  itself,  was 
actually  fought  in  the  town,  and  they  speak  of  the 
historic  Citadel  as  the  rock  against  which  the  Ger- 
man tide  dashed  and  broke  in  vain.  That  is  not  a 
fact,  of  course.  They  never  got  nearer  than  five 
kilometres  *  from  Verdun,  and  the  Citadel,  with  its 
seventeen  kilometres  of  chambers  and  corridors,  was 
used  only  as  a  rest  and  ravitaillement  center,  but 
without  it  the  battle  would  have  been  lost.  It  served 
its  appointed  purpose  —  a  combined  headquarters 
and  gigantic  bakery  —  for  when  not  a  soul  could 
have  lived  in  the  rain  of  shells  which  daily  fell  upon 
the  town,  only  one  struck  home  in  what  the  world 
calls  { The  Underground  City,'  and  it  merely  burst 
in  an  entrance,  killing  and  wounding  a  few  men." 

He  found  an  old  envelope  in  his  pocket,  and,  on 

1 A  kilometre  is  five-eighths  of  a  mile. 


94    THE  MAID  OF  MIRABELLE 

its  back,  drew  with  his  fountain  pen  a  crude  plan 
of  the  town  and  its  environs,  elucidating  as  he 
worked. 

"  The  Boche  launched  their  first  attack  against 
Verdun  here  at  the  north,  but  it  was  stopped  on  that 
line  of  hills  yonder;  they  then  suddenly  changed 
their  tactics,  and  drove  in  overwhelmingly  from  the 
southeast  —  the  plain  of  the  Woevre,  as  the  captain 
has  said  —  striking  northward  at  forts  Donaumont 
and  de  Vaux.  Eventually  they  swamped  us  by  the 
sheer  weight  of  numbers  and  artillery  fire,  but  they 
came  like  cattle  driven  to  the  slaughter.  Some  day, 
perhaps,  you  will  be  able  to  visit  that  battlefield  and 
for  yourself  see  the  scene  which,  for  years  to  come, 
cannot  but  hold  a  thrill  of  horror  and  awe  for  the 
beholder,  but  now  try  to  imagine  these  scratchy 
lines  as  representing  the  sides  of  two  steep  hills 
overlooking  a  deep  ravine.  They  are  crowned 
with  powerful  modern  forts  —  Douaumont  and  de 
Vaux  —  two  of  the  thirty  which  almost  encircle  the 
town.  Opposite  them  rises  another  steep  elevation, 
and  our  trenches  run  along  the  slopes  on  both  sides 
of  the  deep  intervening  valley.  Four  years  ago  it 
was  part  of  a  beautifully  wooded  park,  with  a  pretty 
little  pond  in  the  bottom  —  the  '  etang  de  Vaux,' 
here. 

"  It  was  into  this  cul  de  sac  that  the  Crown  Prince 


WHERE  HISTORY  WAS  MADE    95 

drove  more  than  a  million  men,  in  repeated  close 
formation  assaults. 

"  To-day,  not  a  tree,  and  scarcely  the  remnant  of 
one,  remains,  and  the  ground  for  square  mile  on 
square  mile  appears  like  the  surface  of  a  choppy  sea, 
with  the  shell  holes,  often  as  big  as  the  cellar  of  a 
house,  so  close  together  that  you  needs  must  step 
from  one  to  another  in  walking  across  it.  No  man 
living  can  even  guess  how  many  shells  fell  there, 
but  it  is  said  that  in  one  day  almost  forty  thousand 
landed  on  the  fort  de  Vaux  alone,  and  it  has  been 
estimated  that  every  millimetre  of  that  sector  was 
turned  over  fifteen  times  by  the  steel  plow  of  the 
Sower  Death.  Neither  French  nor  Boche  could 
bury  their  dead,  nor  would  it  have  availed  anything 
to  do  so,  for  bodies  were  torn  up,  and  re-interred, 
time  and  time  again  by  the  hurricane  of  iron. 

"  To  me  it  seems  that  no  other  spot  in  all  the 
world  could  possibly  serve  so  perfectly  as  a  scene 
for  a  Dore  to  paint  as  hell,  as  that  pool  de  Vaux, 
now  sunk  amid  surroundings  of  utter  barrenness 
and  desolation  —  ruined  trenches  like  ugly  gashes 
on  the  earth,  twisted  wire,  shell  holes  innumerable, 
and  its  own  waters  green  with  horrid,  stinking  scum, 
since  its  slimy  bottom  is  the  last  resting-place  of 
three  thousand  dead  Boche,  for  whom  it  was  the 
source  of  the  river  Styx.  Oh,  it's  a  pretty  sight,  even 


96    THE  MAID  OF  MIRABELLE 

now ;  and  I  have  lain  in  the  trenches  above  it  through 
many  a  night  when  the  earth  quaked  and  shuddered 
ceaselessly,  and  seen  its  troubled  waters  red  with 
blood  and  the  reflection  of  ruddy  lights,  while  the 
air  above  —  reeking  with  poisonous  gases  —  was 
filled  with  flying  death,  a  veritable  storm  of  steel 
which  swept  it,  hour  after  hour,  to  the  accompani- 
ment of  unceasing  thunder  and  lightning  never 
equaled  by  the  elements." 

He  paused,  and  Daniel  had  only  to  close  his  eyes 
to  see  the  scene  in  all  its  hideousness  and  horror. 
Was  it  possible  that  mortal  men  had  lived  through 
such  a  thing,  and  come  forth  sane?  Strangely 
enough  the  calm  words  of  the  Elder  came  to  his 
mind :  "  The  Lord  in  His  infinite  wisdom  never  lays 
upon  us  burdens  heavier  than  we  can  bear."  And 
one  who  had  been  through  that  valley  of  death  was 
speaking  calmly  beside  him  again. 

"  Douaumont  fell  first,  after  the  trenches  had  all 
been  wiped  away;  it  was  retaken,  and  lost  again. 
Then  came  the  fight  for  Vaux  —  a  struggle  that 
eclipses  any  tale  of  ancient  romance,  Monsieur.  The 
Boche  swarmed  around  and  on  top  of  the  fort  at 
last,  but  so  long  as  the  west  side  was  free  the  be- 
leaguered city  did  its  valiant  best  to  get  sustenance 
and  succor  to  the  doomed  defenders.  Night  after 
night  a  meager  supply  of  food  and  ammunition  was 


WHERE  HISTORY  WAS  MADE    97 

borne  to  them  by  volunteer  runners,  who,  in  order  to 
reach  the  fort,  had  to  cross  another  deep  ravine, 
every  millimetre  of  which  was  swept  by  the  fire  from 
hundreds  of  German  machine  guns,  placed  on  both 
sides  and  in  the  opening  to  it.  This  is  now  called 
the  '  Ravine  of  the  Dead,'  for  ten  Frenchmen  fell 
there  to  every  square  metre 1  of  ground. 

"  Then  the  Boche  cut  this  line  of  communication, 
also;  they  swarmed  by  thousands  over  the  hidden 
fort,  like  ants  on  an  ant  hill.  Inside,  its  small  but 
desperate  band  of  defenders  fought  on  and  on,  for 
days  which  must  have  seemed  each  an  eternity,  sti- 
fled with  nauseous  gases  and  the  smell  of  their  dead 
which  they  were  unable  to  bury,  and  with  the  cries 
of  the  wounded,  whom  they  could  not  care  for,  ever 
in  their  ears.  With  little  food,  and  almost  no  water 
—  scarcely  more  than  a  mouthful  a  day  for  each 
man  entombed  in  that  living  hell — they  fought  from 
corridor  to  corridor,  on  wet  and  slippery  floors,  with 
rifles,  with  hand-grenades,  with  knives,  against  the 
most  hopeless  of  odds  and  without  a  single  comfort- 
ing hope  of  relief.  Then  ...  it,  too,  fell." 

All  of  the  party  were  silent  for  a  moment. 

"  Tell  him  about  the  buried  trench  west  of  Douau- 
mont,  also,"  the  captain  suggested. 

"  How  can  I  ?  "  Villier  threw  his  hands  wide  with 
JA  metre  is  slightly  more  than  a  yard. 


98     THE  MAID  OF  MIRABELLE 

a  gesture  of  despair.  "  I'm  not  a  Homer,  and  that 
tiny  piece  of  terrain  was  the  scene  of  an  epic.  But 
the  bald  facts  are  these :  imagine  again  a  single  nar- 
row trench,  defending  the  fort's  left  flank  —  a  shal- 
low cut  in  a  flat  field,  exposed  to  the  full  blast  of  the 
furious  storm.  It  is  held  tenaciously  by  the  remnant 
of  a  decimated  regiment  of  French  colonial  troops 
—  bearded,  haggard,  weary  unto  death.  For  God 
knows  how  long,  no  others  have  been  sent  to  relieve 
or  reinforce  them. 

"  Through  the  withering  blast  comes  a  messen- 
ger, creeping  alone  across  the  stubbled  field.  They 
see  him  with  eyes  weak  and  burning  from  the  '  tear 
gases,'  and  hope  is  born  again  in  their  hearts.-  Does 
he  then  bear  the  tidings  that  they  are  to  be  relieved ; 
that  they  can  find  rest  ?  His  message  is,  *  You  must 
hold  this  trench  at  all  costs ;  France  cannot  help  you.' 

"  It  spells  death  to  the  last  man ;  they  look  at  one 
another,  but  there  is  no  sign  of  faltering  on  their 
dark  and  grimy  faces.  One  by  one  the  survivors 
fall.  The  enemy  is  desperate.  Are  his  swelling 
plans  to  be  ruined  by  this  pitiable  handful  of  fools, 
who  do  not  know  enough  to  realize  that  they  are 
beaten  ? 

"  He  turns  all  the  furies  of  hell  on  the  thin  dark 
line,  which  marks  the  doomed  trench.  The  earth 
erupts,  the  trench  is  utterly  obliterated  from  the 


WHERE  HISTORY  WAS  MADE    99 

landscape.  One  instant  it  is  there,  barring-  his  path ; 
the  next,  nothing  remains  to  show  where  it  had  been. 
Nothing?  But  no;  at  regular  intervals,  here  and 
there,  appears  a  bayonet,  the  end  of  a  gun,  like  the 
first  outcropping  of  armed  men  such  as  those  which 
sprang  from  the  dragon's  teeth  in  the  ancient  legend. 
That  is  all ;  but  no  monument  will  ever  be  needed  to 
mark  that  hallowed  spot,  for  they  show  where 
valiant  men  were  buried  alive,  standing  bravely 
erect  at  the  posts  they  would  not  quit. 

"  Oh,  the  fields  about  Verdun  are  thick  with  me- 
morials like  that.  Lately  I  have  thought  often  of 
words  which  I  learned  in  translation  when  I  was  at 
school  —  part  of  a  speech  by  your  Civil  War  Presi- 
dent, Lincoln,  at  the  Gettysburg  cemetery.  '  We 
cannot  dedicate,  we  cannot  consecrate,  we  cannot 
hallow  this  ground.  The  brave  men,  living  and 
dead,  who  struggled  here  have  consecrated  it  far  be- 
yond our  poor  power  to  add  or  detract.' 

"  Do  you  wonder  that  we  of  France  feel  the  same 
about  the  fields  of  Verdun,  and  that  the  city  itself 
stands,  and  shall  always  stand,  for  us,  a  perpetual 
memorial  to  an  accomplished  ideal  ?  " 


CHAPTER  VIII 

WITHIN    THE   PORT   OF   FRANCE 

THE  way  grew  rougher,  more  pitted  with  marks 
of  bursting  shell.  The  ragged  remnants  of  small 
towns,  and  desolated  hamlets,  began  to  appear  at  in- 
tervals along  the  valley  road. 

Towns,  hamlets  ?  "  They  are  giant  corpses  which 
have  fallen  athwart  the  highway  to  lie  in  contorted 
postures ;  mere  stripped  skeletons  of  things  in  which 
once  dwelt  the  living  spirit  of  a  home,"  thought 
Daniel,  whose  imagination  had  been  quickened  and 
morbidly  colored  by  Lieutenant  Villier's  words. 

About  them  spread  the  waste  fields,  brown  and 
sere,  which  shivered  as  the  cold  November  wind 
blew  fitfully  over  them,  laden  with  the  river  damps. 
Here  and  there  stood  what  had  once  been  precious 
trees  bringing  forth  their  fruit  or  yielding  their 
shade,  now  poor,  dead,  decapitated  things. 

Marre  and  Charny  they  passed,  as  through  gi- 
gantic graveyards  yawning  wide  at  the  Trump  of 
Doom.  From  the  latter,  Villier  pointed  out  Bras 

100 


WITHIN  THE  PORT  OF  FRANCE  101 

across  the  cold  gray  river.  It  looked  like  the  bony 
framework  of  some  prehistoric  monster,  with  its 
denuded  and  broken  ribs  piercing  the  gray  sky. 
Thence  through  Thiercourt  they  rode,  finding  it  less 
demolished,  but  made  up,  nevertheless,  of  disem- 
boweled houses,  and  finally  began  to  climb  the  steep 
ascent  which  was  crowned  with  the  twin  towers  of 
Verdun's  twelfth-century  Cathedral. 

The  first  near  view  of  them  drew  an  exclamation 
of  surprise  from  the  American.  "  Why,  they  are 
still  intact !  Look,  only  one  piece  of  the  balustrade 
has  been  shot  away.  But  I  understood  that  the  city 
was  in  ruins." 

"  The  old  towers  stand,  yes,  like  sentries  sym- 
bolizing the  unconquerable  spirit  of  the  place.  It  is 
no  less  than  a  miracle,  Monsieur,  for  during  three 
years  they  have  been  the  especial  target  of  thousands 
and  thousands  of  Boche  shells,  the  last  of  which  fell, 
without  doubt,  only  a  few  hours  ago.  A  pure 
'  spite  '  bombardment  has  been  carried  on  daily,  I'm 
told,  since  early  in  July.  The  fiends  have  known 
that  the  Port  of  France  was  forever  closed  to  them, 
since  that  August  day,  two  years  ago,  when  we  drove 
them  far  back  over  the  hills  to  the  north  and  east, 
and  yet  they  have  been  pouring  steel  into  the  already 
ruined  city,  with  absolutely  no  military  object  to 
be  gained.  It  was  pure  wanton  destruction. 


102    THE  MAID  OF  MIRABELLE 

"  There,  Monsieur,  behold  a  part  of  the  western 
wall  of  the  historic  Citadel,  which  was  actually  com- 
menced in  pre-Roman  days." 

Daniel  gazed  at  the  wall  of  heavy  gray  masonry, 
now  green  with  patches  of  ancient  moss,  which 
showed  like  an  outcropping  of  a  granite  ledge  in  the 
tree-clad  hillside,  and  tried  to  picture  the  miles 
of  dim  caverns  stretching  behind  it  into  the  bowels 
of  the  earth,  and  the  far  distant  past,  as  the  modern 
car  crawled  on  low  speed  up  the  winding  road,  now 
little  better  than  a  rocky  path. 

It  reached  the  summit,  and  swung  sharply  to  the 
left. 

Before  them  stood  a  row  of  ruined  houses,  curv- 
ing down  the  hill,  and  pierced  by  a  narrow,  arched 
portal  —  the  Black  Gate,  a  rich  relic  of  medieval 
times  that  had  been  providentially  spared  by  the 
hand  of  Fate.  Daniel  caught  himself  in  the  act  of 
drawing  his  breath  with  a  sharp  intake,  and  murmur- 
ing the  words  which  had  rung  through  France  as  a 
battle-cry,  "  On  ne  passe  pas."  Through  it,  as  in  a 
frame,  he  saw  the  quaint  picture  of  a  little  street 
piled  with  rubbish  —  broken  beams  and  scattered 
stones,  mortar  and  tile  —  but,  lining  the  road,  on 
either  side,  were  what  seemed  to  be  substantial 
houses,  unhurt.  A  vague  sense  of  disappointment 


possessed  him.  Was  this,  then,  a  famous  city  of 
ruins? 

The  feeling  quickly  vanished,  however,  for,  as  the 
car  crawled  on  its  tortuous  course  through  the  debris 
and  he  came  abreast  of  each  dwelling  in  turn,  he 
could  see  the  sky  outlined  in  every  window.  Mere 
shells  they  were,  mere  husks  of  homes,  roofless,  and 
with  their  interiors  filled  with  litter,  from  which 
everything  of  value  had  long  since  been  stripped. 
They  stood  erect,  still,  but  like  corpses  which  stared 
into  the  familiar  street  with  sightless  eyes. 

Again  they  turned  a  corner  to  the  left,  and  now 
full  devastation  burst  upon  his  view.  To  the  right 
the  Cathedral  raised  its  unscathed  walls,  symbol- 
ically, but  it  was  roofless,  and  under  the  shadow  of 
its  towers  lay  the  pitiful  remains  of  the  once  beauti- 
ful cloister  of  Saint  Margaret's  College;  and  oppo- 
site appeared  what  had  formerly  been  spacious,  sub- 
stantial residences,  now  looking  for  all  the  world 
like  the  discarded  doll  houses  of  some  race  of  giant 
children,  since  whole  fagades  were  missing,  and 
their  three-storied  interiors  were  exposed  to  every 
curious  eye.  Fragments  of  furniture  hung  here  and 
there,  suspended  half  in  space  on  sagging  floors,  or 
bare  protruding  rafters. 

"  Now,  look  below  you  on  the  left."  The  lieuten- 
ant's voice  broke  grimly  into  his  reverie,  as  the 


104   THE  MAID  OF  MIRABELLE 

chauffeur  steered  wide  to  avoid  a  gaping  hole  in  the 
street  beside  the  Cathedral  wall,  where  a  recent  shell 
of  huge  dimensions  —  a  42omm.  perhaps  —  had 
viciously  torn  its  way  into  a  vaulted  cellar  beneath. 

Daniel  obeyed.  On  the  downward  sloping  hill- 
side to  the  north  appeared  wrack  and  ruin  enough  to 
satisfy  even  the  most  ghoulish  Hun,  for  naught  re- 
mained of  acres  of  homes  but  tumbled  walls  and 
heaped  up  piles  of  mortar  and  stone,  splashed  with 
the  red  of  bricks  like  spattered  blood. 

"  Do  you  wonder  that  the  underground  chambers 
of  the  Citadel  were  good  enough  for  us  to  occupy 
during  our  brief  periods  of  rest,  even  though  we 
were  shut  off  from  the  light  of  day?  To  be  sure, 
all  of  the  city  is  not  demolished  like  that  section,  for 
it  lay  in  the  direct  path  of  the  hurricane  of  steel  that 
swept  down  from  the  North,  but  I'll  wager  that  not 
over  twenty  houses  remain  unscathed  in  this  city, 
which  was  once  the  home  of  more  than  twenty 
thousand  civilians,  with  thousands  of  garrisoned 
troops  in  addition." 

The  streets  were  filled  with  many  American,  and 
a  few  French  soldiers,  swinging  arm  in  arm  over  the 
piles  of  debris,  laughing,  jesting,  singing.  Their  be- 
havior struck  Daniel  as  a  profanation.  It  was  not 
that  he  begrudged  them  their  day  of  joyous  relief, 
but  he  found  that  he  wanted  to  be  alone  with  his 


WITHIN  THE  PORT  OF  FRANCE  105 

imagination  in  this  city  of  memories.  And  when  his 
conductors  were  hailed  by  a  group  of  passing  ac- 
quaintances, and  invited  to  celebrate  the  auspicious 
meeting  with  wine  and  song,  he  seized  the  opportu- 
nity to  excuse  himself  from  the  party,  on  the  plea 
that  he  did  not  drink,  and  wanted  to  view  the  ruins 
more  closely.  They  acquiesced  in  his  mood,  after 
the  usual  show  of  hospitable  insistence,  and  agreed 
to  meet  him  at  nightfall,  with  the  Cathedral  as  the 
rendezvous. 

He  was  content  to  be  alone,  to  wander  through 
the  twisting  streets,  so  rich  in  history  and  tradition, 
and  to  people  them  with  men  of  his  own  imagining 
—  not  Yanks  and  poilus,  gay  with  wine  and  song, 
but  warriors,  grim  with  the  sweat  and  dust  of  battle, 
plodding  their  way  wearily  in  from  the  distant  fields 
under  cover  of  the  protecting  night,  to  find  rest  and 
refuge  in  the  bowels  of  the  earth. 

For  an  hour,  undisturbed  by  passing  throng  or 
military  police,  who,  to-day,  greeted  him  merely 
with  a  friendly  glance  and  nod,  Daniel  wended  his 
way  through  cluttered  streets,  and  up  and  down 
steep  alleys,  their  well-worn  stone  steps  shadowed 
by  antique  houses  which  leaned  toward  each  other 
above  them,  like  gossiping  neighbors.  Many  a 
demolished  domicile  he  entered  to  poke  aimlessly 
through  the  wreckage  within,  and  construct  ro- 


106    THE  MAID  OF  MIRABELLE 

mances  from  the  fragments  of  what  had  once  been 
the  household  goods  of  happy  families,  now  van- 
ished whither?  There  was  no  one  to  prevent  him. 
and  as  yet  none  of  the  doors  bore  the  placards  which 
were  later  to  inform  the  passer-by,  in  French  and  in 
English,  that  "  THE  OWNER  BEING  BACK  IT 
IS  VERBIDDEN  TO  GET  IN." 

He  trod  gingerly  at  first,  for  there  was  danger  at 
almost  every  step,  but  in  time  familiarity  with  jump- 
ing holes  in  floors  bred  carelessness,  and  as  he  was 
edging  his  way  along  a  narrow  path,  made  by  a 
substantial  beam,  on  the  second  story  of  one  piti- 
able travesty  on  a  home,  his  foot  struck  a  protruding 
nail,  he  lost  his  balance,  jumped  wildly,  and  landed 
on  the  sagging  floor  beyond. 

There  he  lay  in  the  mortar  dust,  hanging  half  over 
the  edge  and  almost  afraid  to  attempt  to  pull  him- 
self forward,  so  frail  was  his  support.  Daniel's 
heart  seemed  to  crowd  up  into  his  throat,  and  it, 
with  the  dust  that  filled  his  mouth,  made  it  almost 
impossible  for  him  to  cry  out.  But  there  was  no 
need  of  his  doing  so.  A  young  poilu  came  bounding 
up  the  shaky  stairs,  calling  to  him  to  hang  on,  and 
an  instant  later  two  strong  hands  had  grasped  his 
wrists  and  pulled  him  to  safety. 

Daniel  rolled  over,  and  sat  up,  breathing  hard; 
then  he  glanced  up  at  the  face  of  his  timely  rescuer, 


WITHIN  THE  PORT  OF  FRANCE  107 

who  was  nursing  his  left  arm,  and  upon  whose  face 
there  appeared  a  look  of  pain.  It  yielded  to  one  of 
astonishment  and  the  American's  countenance  re- 
flected it  as  he  scrambled  to  his  feet,  and  held  out  his 
hand,  exclaiming,  "  Jean !  Is  it  you  who  saved  my 
life?" 

The  Frenchman  showed  his  white  teeth  in  a  glad 
smile,  as  he  eagerly  grasped  the  outstretched  hand. 
"  Ah,  is  it  then  really  my  friend  the  American  ?  It 
is  a  joy  to  see  you  again,  even  looking  like  that." 

Daniel  glanced  ruefully  down  at  his  dust-covered 
uniform,  and  smiled  sheepishly. 

"  Yes,  it  is  I,  but  do  not  thank  me  for  saving  your 
life  —  at  the  most  you  would  only  have  had  an 
unpleasant  fall,  and  received  a  few  bruises.  You 
must  excuse  me  for  laughing,  Monsieur,  but  your 
face  ...  it  is  covered  with  powder  like  a  chorus 
girl's." 

"  Your  arm !  I  forgot  that  it  had  been  wounded. 
Did  you  hurt  it  badly  pulling  my  hulking  body  out 
of  the  hole?" 

"  Only  for  an  instant,  the  pain  has  gone  now,  and 
I  am  very  glad  that  I  was  down  stairs  and  so  heard 
your  fall,  for  few  soldiers  pass  through  this  side 
street." 

"  What  a  coincidence  it  is  ...  you,  of  all  people, 
here." 


108    THE  MAID  OF  MIRABELLE 

"  That  I  found  you  in  this  house  is  a  coincidence, 
yes,  but  not  that  I  am  here.  Behold  the  home  of 
Jean  Harent"  He  stretched  out  his  arms  in  a  com- 
prehensive gesture. 

"  This  .  .  .  your  house  ?  " 

"  But  yes,  at  least  it  was  once  the  happy  home  of 
my  family.  For  many,  many  generations  the 
Harents  have  been  born,  and  lived  and  died  within 
these  broken  walls.  And  now  .  .  .  ' 

He  stopped,  and  Daniel  asked  gently,  "  Your 
family?  They  are  not,  then  ...  ?" 

"  The  father  and  mother  .  .  .  dead,  yes.  He 
was  killed  in  the  first  battle  of  the  Marne,  Monsieur, 
and  then  the  mother  died  of  grief.  She  was  old, 
you  see,"  he  hastened  to  add,  as  though  an  apology 
were  necessary.  "  My  sisters,  Marie  and  Georgette, 
and  the  little  baby  brother  Pierre,  are  all  refugees 
in  a  village  that  has  escaped  the  destroyer.  Ah,  but 
I  forget.  Monsieur  himself  has  heard  of  the  place. 
It  is  Mirabelle,  where  dwells  the  family  of  my  friend 
who  is  now  dead." 

At  the  simple  words  it  seemed  to  Daniel  as  though 
the  picture  which  rested  over  his  heart  actually 
burned,  yet  he  could  not  bring  himself  to  mention  its 
possession.  Besides,  he  had  made  a  mental  vow 
somehow  to  return  it,  himself,  to  Joan,  and  so  re- 


WITHIN  THE  PORT  OF  FRANCE  109 

deem  the  promise  that  he  had  made,  even  though  it 
had  been  demanded  under  a  mistake. 

"  But  how  came  you  here  to-day?  "  he  asked,  by 
way  of  changing  the  subject. 

"  I  am  still  on  sick  leave,  but  now  quite  well 
enough  to  be  about,  thanks  to  the  good  Lord.  I 
longed  to  be  in  my  old  home,  my  triumphant  Ver- 
dun, on  this  day  of  days,  and  was  able  to  beg  a  ride 
hither  in  the  motor  car  of  one  of  your  kind  com- 
patriots. And  you,  Monsieur  ?  " 

"  I,  too,  came  from  X  ...  by  automobile,  as  the 
guest  of  Lieutenant  Villier  and  some  of  his  friends." 

"  My  lieutenant  ?  And  he  is  here,  also  ?  Is  it  not 
strange ;  it  is  the  third  time  that  our  paths  have  met 
in  different  places.  Somehow  I  have  a  feeling  that 
we  shall  see  each  other  again,  perhaps  be  friends, 
Monsieur." 

"  But  surely  I  hope  that  we  are  friends  now  — 
especially  after  what  has  just  happened.  Is  it  not 
so?" 

"  Ah,  but  yes,  Monsieur."  Instinctively  Daniel's 
hand  went  out  anew,  and  Jean's  came  to  meet  it.  "  I 
wish  that  I  might  offer  you  a  more  hospitable  wel- 
come on  this,  your  first  visit  to  my  house.  Indeed, 
if  Monsieur  will  attend  I  will  try  to  purchase  some 
wine  .  .  .  but  I  forget,  you  do -not  drink  the  wine." 

"  No,  and  I  will  gladly  take  the  word  for  the  deed. 


110   THE  MAID  OF  MIRABELLE 

Come,  tell  me  something  about  your  former  life 
here,  and  your  little  ones." 

"  There  is  little  to  tell,  Monsieur.  Before  my 
father  —  he  was  nearly  fifty  —  was  called  out  with 
the  other  reservists  to  help  stem  the  German  tide 
along  the  banks  of  the  Marne,  and  I,  myself,  joined 
the  colors,  we  lived  a  very  simple,  a  very  peaceful 
life.  I  was  learning  his  trade,  that  of  wood  carver, 
for,  as  you  may  know,  Verdun  has  long  been  famous 
for  its  wood  carving,  as  well  as  its  beer,  spirits  and 
confiture. 

"  It  was  in  this  room  that  I  slept  with  my  elder 
brother,  who  also  has  died  that  France  might  live. 
Our  high-post  bedstead  stood  in  that  corner.  Now  it 
is  gone,  but  I  do  not  mourn  its  loss,  for  perhaps  some 
other  weary  poilu  had  need  of  it  to  rest  in,  or  per- 
haps he  and  his  comrades  were  cold  and  needed 
wood  to  make  a  fire."  The  words  were  simply  ut- 
tered, and  touched  Daniel's  heart  and  his  imagina- 
tion. "  Yonder  in  the  next  room  slept  my  little  sis- 
ter Marie,  who  was  only  seven  when  they  had  to 
leave  our  home  in  such  haste,  and  Georgette  who 
was  four.  Pierre  was  still  but  a  baby,  and  slept  with 
the  mother  and  father  in  the  room  below.  It  was 
only  three  years  ago,  Monsieur,  for  it  was  in  Feb- 
ruary of  nineteen  sixteen  that  the  Boche  first  at- 
tacked Verdun,  after  failing  to  reach  Paris  from  the 


WITHIN  THE  PORT  OF  FRANCE  111 

north,  but  already  it  seems  to  me  like  another  age ; 
as  though  I  had  dwelt  in  another  world." 

As  he  finished  speaking  he  led  the  way  by  another 
door  back  to  the  room  which  Daniel  had  just  quitted. 
Now  his  eyes  caught  sight  of  something  half-buried 
in  a  pile  of  refuse  in  one  corner,  and,  with  a  little 
exclamation,  he  bent  and  drew  it  forth. 

"  Look,"  he  cried.  "  It  is  little  Marie's  poupee. 
What  a  treasure !  I  must  keep  it  carefully  and  take 
it  to  her  some  day.  Surely  she  will  remember  it,  for 
a  little  mother  never  forgets  her  baby." 

There  was  a  burning  mist  in  Daniel's  eyes  for  an 
instant,  as  they  made  out  the  misshaped  remains  of 
what  had  once  been  a  baby's  cherished  rag  doll. 
More  poignantly  than  had  any  of  the  other  sights, 
it  brought  straight  home  to  him  the  vision  of  the 
broken  fireside,  the  scattered  family.  The  same 
thought  was  in  his  mind  as  had  been  in  Jean's  —  that 
of  a  little  mother  forced  to  flee,  as  hundreds  had 
been,  leaving  behind  her  dearest  possession,  her 
child. 

The  afternoon  was  already  far  spent.  The  shad- 
ows of  advancing  evening  were  stealing  into  the 
house  to  lend  added  gloom  and  grimness  to  the  pic- 
ture of  desolation.  The  spirit  of  the  place  laid  its 
specter  hand  on  Daniel's  heart,  as  he  compared  it  to 
the  peaceful  scene  in  the  living-room  at  home,  so 


many  miles  away,  and  he  was  nothing  loath  to  fol- 
low Jean's  suggestion  that  they  depart  before  the 
darkness  made  movement  dangerous. 

"  Soon  there  will  be  much  celebration  in  the 
streets,  for  it  is  better  to  forget  the  days  that  are 
gone,  and  to  think  only  of  the  new  day  which  is  now 
being  ushered  in  with  song  and  rejoicing.  Hark !  " 

Both  paused  to  listen,  standing  in  the  darkened 
doorway,  for  night  had  already  entrenched  itself  in 
the  steep,  close-walled  street.  High  on  the  hill  above 
them  sounded  the  triumphant  pealing  of  clear,  melo- 
dious bells,  chanting  the  song  of  deliverance. 

"  Come  quickly,  Monsieur.  Listen,  they  are  ring- 
ing the  Cathedral  chimes.  It  is  the  first  time  in 
three  long  years.  Hasten,  hasten !  You,  too,  must 
pull  on  one  of  the  ropes  so  that  you  can  tell  your 
children  and  grandchildren,  in  the  days  to  come,  that 
you  helped  ring  the  bells  of  Immortal  Verdun,  on 
the  night  of  its  liberation." 

Clang,  clang,  clang!  Through  the  still  evening 
air  swelled  the  vibrant  message  of  the  chimes,  which, 
for  a  hundred  years,  had  been  famed  for  the  clarity 
and  sweetness  of  their  tone. 

The  pair  sped  up  the  narrow,  cobbled  way  to  the 
Place  de  la  Cathedral,  and  found  it  already  filled 
with  moving,  shouting  forms.  Together  they 
forced  a  passage  through  the  crowd  around  the 


WITHIN  THE  PORT  OF  FRANCE  113 

doorway  in  the  base  of  the  left-hand  tower,  and 
slowly  made  their  way  up  the  stairway  of  thick 
oaken  planks  which  wound  up  through  the  darkness 
to  one  of  two  square  chambers,  joined  by  a  passage. 
The  gleam  from  several  flaring  briquets  —  the 
French  soldier's  inevitable  cigarette  lighter  —  pro- 
duced a  fantastic  illumination,  by  which  Daniel 
made  out  the  figures  of  a  dozen  uniformed  men, 
swaying  back  and  forth  as  they  tugged  at  the  four 
or  five  ropes  which  dangled  out  of  the  blackness 
above.  With  the  eagerness  of  youth  they  elbowed 
others  from  their  path,  and  together  seized  one  of 
the  rope-ends.  A  long,  bending  pull,  and  the  big  bell 
above  them  sounded  forth  its  deep-voiced  note. 
Again.  Again.  The  perspiration  began  to  start 
from  Daniel's  warmly  clad  body,  but  he  pulled  on 
and  on,  in  a  sort  of  ecstasy,  for  he  felt  that  it  had 
been  granted  to  him  to  participate  in  a  unique  cere- 
mony —  the  birth  of  a  new  epoch  for  a  city  whose 
name  History  had  written  oft  in  letters  of  untar- 
nishable  gold. 

Weary  at  last,  they  yielded  the  rope  to  other  eager 
hands,  and  Jean  led  the  way  up  the  remainder  of  the 
two  hundred  steep  steps  to  the  open  space  atop  the 
square  tower. 

The  chill  night  air  smote  Daniel's  heated  body, 
but  he  forgot  to  feel  cold  as  his  gaze  swept  the  dis- 


114   THE  MAID  OF  MIRABELLE 

tant  skyline  formed  by  billowing  hills.  It  was  al- 
most fully  dark,  but  each  stood  out  against  the  sky 
as  though  silhouetted  in  fire.  Jean  anticipated  the 
question  which  was  on  his  tongue.  "  Look !  "  he  ex- 
claimed. "  They  are  firing  off  the  now  useless  flares 
and  rockets,  with  which  we  used  to  illumine  the  night 
in  order  better  to  watch  the  foe.  Ah,  Dieu,  but  it  is 
beautiful  .  .  .  now!  There  are  no  guns  sounding 
to-night,  Monsieur,  but  can  you  not  imagine  yourself 
a  sentinel  here  during  the  long  watches  of  the  night, 
or  in  the  daytime,  when  the  shells  are  bursting  over 
the  town  and  all  about  you,  as  you  gaze  at  those  dis- 
tant hills?  For  years  poilus  have  stood  as  we  now 
stand,  helpless  targets  for  some  well-directed  shell 
which  never  came,  although  how  close  some  of  them 
fell,  you  can  observe,  Monsieur." 

He  pointed  downward,  and  Daniel  leaned  over  the 
stone  balustrade  to  peer  into  the  black  interior  of  the 
Cathedral  whose  roof  had  been  torn  away.  The 
American  shuddered. 

The  song  of  the  chimes  at  length  died  into  the 
stillness,  and  a  clear  tenor  voice  behind  them  sud- 
denly began  a  song  that  thrilled  him  to  his  depths, 
so  martial,  so  triumphant  were  both  the  words  and 
the  melody : 

"  Et  Verdun,  la  victorieuse, 
Pousse  un  cri  qui  portent  la  bos 


WITHIN  THE  PORT  OF  FRANCE  115 

Les  echos  des  bords  de  la  Meuse, 

Halte  Id!  On  ne  passe  pas! 

Plus  de  morgue,  plus  d' arrogance, 

Fuyez  barbares  et  laquais, 

C'est  id  la  Porte  de  France 

Et  vous  ne  passerez  .  .  .  jamais! "  l 

There  was  a  short  burst  of  applause,  but  Daniel's 
attention  was  immediately  attracted  to  Jean,  who 
was  looking-  down  into  the  square  beneath.  "  See, 
there  is  my  lieutenant;  I  could  recognize  his  figure 
anywhere."  He  pointed  to  an  automobile  whose  oc- 
cupants were  thrown  into  clear  relief  by  the  head- 
lights on  a  car  behind  them.  "  Doubtless  they  are 
waiting  for  you.  Shall  we  not  descend,  Monsieur?  " 

sic******* 

With  a  regretful  last  glance  at  the  never-to-be- 
forgotten  picture  painted  on  the  blue-black  sky, 
Daniel  nodded  his  assent,  and  turned  to  follow  his 
guide. 


1  And  Verdun,  victorious, 
Starts  the  river  echoes  clear 
With  her  watchword  glorious, 
* '  Halt !  Ye  shall  not  pass.'    For  here 
Ends  barbaric  arrogance. 
Fails  your  boast  —  like  sounding  brass  — 
This  is  the  portal  of  our  France 
And  ye  shall  never,  never  pass ! " 

"Verdun,  On  ne  passe  pas." 

Free  metrical  translation  by  the  Author. 


116   THE  MAID  OF  MIRABELLE 

And  all  through  the  long,  tiresome  drive  home- 
ward it  lingered  in  his  memory.  As  Jean  had  proph- 
esied, he  had  truly  experienced  something  of  which 
he  could  proudly  tell  his  children  in  future  years. 
With  the  thought,  his  heart  went  out  anew  to  Faith, 
so  sweet,  so  constant,  waiting  for  him  in  the  quiet 
harbor  that  he  called  home. 


CHAPTER  IX 

THE   ROAD   TO    MIRABELLE 

THE  days  added  themselves  into  weeks,  the  weeks 
slipped  swiftly  by,  bringing  Christmas  and  a  New 
Year  in  their  train. 

Winter  lay  over  the  land  —  not  the  clear,  crispy 
season  that  Daniel  had  known  and  loved  at  home, 
but  one  of  shivering  damps  and  frequent  thaws, 
when  the  moisture-laden  earth  became  a  clinging 
mud,  ankle-deep  in  the  unkempt  streets  of  the  ruined 
villages  into  which  his  daily  labors  took  him.  The 
precepts  of  his  people  had  set  a  bridle  on  his  tongue, 
but  he  was  at  times  shocked  at  the  profanity  within 
his  heart  over  the  elements.  The  truth  is  that  the 
blasphemy  of  the  soldiers,  with  whom  he  had  been  so 
long  and  so  closely  in  contact,  had  rubbed  the  edge 
off  his  conscience,  in  this  respect,  and  words,  at  the 
expression  of  which  he  had  once  shrunk  inwardly, 
now  passed  wholly  unheeded. 

Almost  invariably  cold,  wet  always,  and  physi- 
117 


118    THE  MAID  OF  MIRABELLE 

cally  miserable  when  he  paused  in  his  absorbing 
duties  long  enough  to  consider  himself,  he  was, 
nevertheless,  strangely  content,  for  the  fires  of  en- 
thusiasm for  his  work  burned  high  within  him,  and 
kept  his  spirit  warm. 

In  the  newly  liberated  area,  of  which  Verdun  was 
the  center,  the  French  government  had  assigned 
thirty  destroyed  villages  to  the  American  Society  of 
Friends  to  rehabilitate,  and  several  of  them  were 
within  the  radius  apportioned  to  Daniel  for  investi- 
gation. He  had  to  determine  their  former  popula- 
tion, their  condition  for  habitation;  he  had  to  plan 
for  the  establishment  of  one  huge  centre  de  recep- 
tion where  the  returning  refugees  could  be  housed 
temporarily,  and  for  the  future  erection  of  concrete 
huts  and  neat  little  portable  homes,  which  should 
later  be  rented  to  them  for  nominal  sums,  or  sold  at 
practically  cost,  and  on  easy  terms.  And  there  were 
canteens  to  be  arranged  for,  wherein  the  weary  way- 
farers, often  sick  at  heart  from  viewing  the  des- 
olated spots  which  had  once  been  their  homes,  might 
find  rest  and  comfort  for  body  and  soul.  And  shell- 
filled  fields  to  be  examined  to  find  out  how  much  — 
if  any  —  agriculture  could  take  place  on  them  that 
spring,  and  how  many  implements  would  be  re- 
quired. And  .  .  .  oh,  there  was  a  multitude  of 
kindred  tasks,  such  as  the  pioneer  is  always  called 


THE  ROAD  TO  MIRABELLE    119 

upon  to  perform,  and  although,  for  the  time  being, 
he  missed  the  satisfaction  which  comes  from  per- 
sonal contact  with  those  one  serves,  the  work 
brought  its  own  reward. 

The  contentment  which  filled  him  was  made 
deeper  by  the  subconsciousness  that,  after  the  season 
of  labor,  there  awaited  him  a  sure  reward  at  home, 
for  Faith's  weekly  letters  gave  him  bright  glimpses 
of  the  haven  where  he  would  be.  They  were  always 
sweet  and  simple,  like  herself,  but  in  every  line 
Daniel  read  the  story  of  a  love  which  daily  grew 
more  deep.  The  realization  was  wonderful  to  him, 
yet  not  quite  real  —  like  one  of  his  old-time  imag- 
ined romances  —  for  it  was  difficult  for  him  to  vis- 
ualize the  flesh  and  blood  Faith  in  the  role  of  sweet- 
heart, having  known  her  so  long  as  a  sister.  And  he 
had  yet  to  learn  the  great  truth,  that  when  real  love 
enters  the  heart  of  a  pure  woman  it  straightway 
weaves  itself  into  every  fiber  of  her  being;  body, 
mind  and  soul  becoming  one  with  it. 

Not  that  his  own  affection  had  waned,  but  a  man 
—  who  is  more  essentially  a  physical  being  —  gen- 
erally requires  a  tangible  object  to  arouse  his  love 
to  its  fullest.  An  ideal  and  a  memory  are  seldom 
enough. 

In  the  full  absorption  which  his  labors  pro- 
duced, Daniel  almost  ceased  to  think  of  the  girl, 


120    THE  MAID  OF  MIRABELLE 

Joan,  whom  he  was  promise-bound  to  seek,  but  at 
times  the  recollection  came  unbidden,  to  prick  his 
conscience  on  the  most  unexpected  occasions.  And 
one  night  the  sight  of  her  mutilated  picture,  which 
4ie  had  drawn  from  his  pocket  by  mistake  for 
Faith's,  made  him  suddenly  determine  to  clear  his 
mind  of  the  whole  matter  by  sending  it  to  her  with 
a  brief  explanatory  note,  since  he  had  begun  to 
despair  of  his  ever  being  able  to  go  to  Mirabelle. 
He  spent  nearly  an  hour  with  dictionary  and  phrase 
book,  in  an  endeavor  to  couch  his  message  in  ex- 
pressive French,  but  when  he  re-read  the  finished 
note  he  tore  it  up  as  hopelessly  crude,  and  vowed 
that  he  had  been  a  fool  for  having  allowed  the  ro- 
mantic impulse  of  a  moment  to  rule  his  better  judge- 
ment. 

Then  the  three  women  who  weave  human  desti- 
nies busied  themselves  again  with  the  pattern  of  his 
life. 

Daniel  received  orders  to  move  on  to  the  other 
half  of  the  ruined  area,  to  the  south  of  his  present 
field  of  operations,  and  the  letter  carried  the  sugges- 
tion that  he  might  possibly  locate  his  headquarters 
in  some  still  habitable  village,  in,  or  close  by  the 
devastated  section,  when  he  could  travel  by  train, 
bicycle  or  foot,  as  the  occasion  demanded.  He 
turned  to  his  map  of  that  section,  and  started  to 


THE  ROAD  TO  MIRABELLE   121 

draw  a  red  ink  outline  around  the  villages  named  in 
his  orders.  Suddenly  the  moving  pen  stopped 
as  though  of  its  own  accord.  The  line  had  reached 
a  small  black  dot,  against  which,  in  diminutive 
letters,  was  the  word  "  Mirabelle." 

Perhaps  the  Fates  were  chuckling! 

******** 

Running  true  to  form,  if  not  to  schedule,  the  train 
panted  into  the  junction  station,  several  hours  late. 
The  early  armistice  period  had  produced  little,  if 
any,  improvement  on  the  debilitated  railroads  of 
Northeastern  France,  and  as  the  movement  of 
freight  was  vastly  more  important  than  that  of 
passengers,  the  two  were  frequently  carried  in  com- 
bination —  in  which  cases  the  hare  naturally  took 
the  tortoise's  pace.  Thus  it  was  with  the  train  on 
which  Daniel  journeyed  southeastward.  It  was 
made  up  of  equal  numbers  of  flat  cars,  piled  with 
cord-wood,  and  dirty,  third-class  coaches  —  some  of 
them  still  bearing  German  signs  —  crowded  with 
poilus,  and  stuffy  with  the  bitter  smoke  of  many 
strong  French  cigarettes. 

One  other  American  was  in  his  coach,  a  corporal 
whose  left  shoulder  bore  the  Lorraine  Cross  and 
"  A.S."  —  advance  sector  —  and  his  sleeve  three 
gold  chevrons.  "  Can  you  beat  it  ?  "  he  demanded, 
plaintively,  for  the  tenth  time,  as  the  train  slowed 


122    THE  MAID  OF  MIRABELLE 

down  to  the  speed  of  a  moderate  walk.  "  These 
frogs  have  about  as  much  '  pep '  as  a  bowl  of  cam- 
bric tea.  I'd  get  out  and  push,  if  I  wasn't  afraid  of 
shoving  their  dinky  engine  off  the  track." 

Daniel  laughed.  "  Where  are  you  headed?  "  he 
asked. 

"  Back  to  the  mudhole  that  the  frogs  call  Neuf- 
chateau,  to  act  as  valet  to  a  bunch  of  ornery  army 
mules.  G — d,  how  I  hate  it." 

"  Then  what  are  you  in  such  a  hurry  to  get  back 
there  for?" 

"  Me  ?  In  a  hurry  to  get  back  ?  How  do  yer  get 
that  way?" 

"  But  you  were  just  complaining  about  the  speed 
of  this  train,  buddy." 

"  Aw,  well ;  let's  go  somewhere,  I  say,  and  these 
frogs  are  the  plumb  slowest,  laziest  race  on  the  face 
of  the  earth.  Look  at  this  here  train  now." 

"  Well,  I'm  not  crazy  about  it,  myself,"  confessed 
Daniel.  "  But  we  might  as  well  be  honest  and  admit 
that  France  has  been,  and  is  still,  *  up  against  it.' 
She  hasn't  had,  for  four  years,  either  time  or  money 
to  keep  her  rails  and  rolling  stock  in  repair;  more 
than  half  the  time  she  is  obliged  to  use  wood  instead 
of  coal  on  these  branch  lines,  and  when  you  are  liv- 
ing a  hand  to  mouth  existence  you  cannot  always 
eat  on  schedule.  Of  course  we  like  to  think  that 


THE  ROAD  TO  MIRABELLE    123 

in  the  good  old  U.  S.  A.  we  do  everything  a  little 
better  than  it  is  done  anywhere  else  in  the  world,  but 
have  you  ever  noticed  how  smoothly  these  French 
trains  start  and  stop  —  even  mixed  affairs  like  this 
one  —  and  compared  it  with  the  bumps  and  jolts 
which  we  get  at  home?  I  see  that  you  have  been 
over  here  more  than  eighteen  months,  so  perhaps 
it  will  be  difficult  for  you  to  believe  me,  when  I  tell 
you  that,  since  our  government  took  over  the  rail- 
ways, things  haven't  been  such  an  awful  lot  better 
in  America  than  they  are  here  —  with  the  war  more 
than  three  thousand  miles  away,  instead  of  right  on 
the  premises." 

The  Yank  turned  on  him  a  look  of  unbelieving 
disgust  that  made  Daniel  smile,  but  instead  of  com- 
menting on  the  statement,  which  he  obviously  con- 
sidered absurd,  the  soldier  remarked,  "  And  we  had 
to  come  them  three  thousand  miles  to  win  the  war. 
The  Frenchies  couldn't  do  it." 

"  Look  here,  buddy,"  answered  Daniel,  no  longer 
amused.  "  I  like  to  believe  that  America  was  God's 
instrument  in  ending  the  war,  as  well  as  you  do. 
But  as  a  sporting  nation,  and  —  I  hope  —  a  nation 
of  good  sports,  we  ought  to  be  both  just  and  gen- 
erous. We  came  in  with  a  hand-picked  bunch  of 
trained  athletes  capable  of  putting  over  the  knock- 
out blow,  but  it  isn't  fair  to  forget  that  France,  with 


124   THE  MAID  OF  MIRABELLE 

an  army  made  up  of  soldiers  ranging  from  mere 
boys  to  men  past  middle  age,  had  been  wearing  down 
the  enemy  for  four  years,  and,  groggy  from  the  loss 
of  her  best  blood,  was  still  hanging  on."  In  his 
earnestness  he  was  surprised  to  find  himself  using 
expressions  which  had  never  passed  his  lips  before, 
and  he  suddenly  smiled  as  he  mentally  pictured  the 
look  on  the  Elder's  calm  face  if  he  could  have  heard 
him  then.  "  I'm  not  a  military  man,  and  I  don't 
pretend  to  know  much  about  fighting,"  he  continued, 
"  but  I've  heard  American  officers  say  that,  although 
the  French  troops  don't  look  like  much,  and  perhaps 
have  not  the  dash  of  our  boys  —  which  is  not 
strange  —  they  are  the  stubbornest  fighters  on  earth 
and  the  best  marchers." 

"Ah,  h — 11  —  begging  your  pardon,"  said  the 
Yank.  "  Well,  maybe  you're  right,  friend,  but 
nearly  two  years  of  this  sort  of  thing  —  blood,  mud, 

cooties,  a  queer  foreign  lingo  .  .  .  and 

rnules,  certainly  gets  a  fellow's  goat.  I  suppose 
that  after  I've  got  one  good  look  at  the  Goddess  of 
Liberty,  God  bless  her,  I'll  be  telling  my  friends 
that  France  is  there,  all  ways  from  the  center.  Well, 
we're  here  at  last.  Glad  to  have  met  yer." 

A  spur  line  ran  up  the  bank  of  the  Moselle  on  the 
opposite  side  of  the  river  from  Mirabelle,  but,  long 
before  their  arrival  at  the  junction,  Daniel's  watch 


THE  ROAD  TO  MIRABELLE   125 

had  told  him  that  the  one  afternoon  train  thither 
had  departed,  and  when  he  disembarked  he  found 
himself  faced  with  the  dismal  alternative  of  getting 
a  room  in  the  crowded,  uninviting  town  —  if,  in- 
deed, it  were  possible  to  do  so  —  or  plodding  the 
seven  kilometres  which  lay  between  him  and  his 
avowed  destination,  with  even  less  certainty  of  ob- 
taining accommodations  for  the  night  upon  his  ar- 
rival in  that  hamlet  of  six  hundred  souls. 

Nevertheless,  a  streak  of  Quaker  stubbornness 
made  him  take  to  the  road  that  wound  with  the 
Moselle  into  the  open  country,  northward. 

The  day  had  been  mild,  and,  as  he  left  the  paved 
street  for  the  highway,  the  mud  underfoot  began  to 
make  walking  both  unpleasant  and  difficult ;  but  the 
first  gray  tones  of  the  long  twilight  brought  a  sud- 
den change  in  the  weather.  The  air  grew  rapidly 
more  chill,  and  the  rising  wind  came  laden  with  the 
damps  of  the  river  valley.  Snow  began  to  fall,  at  first 
in  vagrant  flakes  that  were  softly  caressing,  but  which 
soon  grew  larger,  wet,  and  adhesive.  The  blended 
dull  greens  and  browns  of  the  fields,  on  either  side  of 
the  highway,  slowly  faded  into  white,  but  for  a  time 
the  road  itself  remained,  a  dark,  bisecting  line. 
Then  it,  too,  yielded,  and  the  only  color  in  all  the 
landscape  was  furnished  by  the  black  of  bare  tree 
trunks,  the  cold  gray  of  the  rushing  river,  and  the 


126   THE  MAID  OF  MIRABELLE 

vanishing  line  of  brown  footprints  left  behind  by 
the  traveler.  The  wind  increased,  raw  and  piercing. 

Thoroughly  wet  at  last,  and  with  his  spirits  at 
low  ebb,  Daniel  buried  his  square  chin  in  the  up- 
turned collar  of  his  heavy  jacket,  and  drove  on  into 
the  face  of  the  storm,  still  stubborn,  but  inwardly 
anathematizing  his  stubbornness. 

The  cheery  squares  of  yellow  light  which  marked 
the  windows  of  two  intermediate  hamlets,  beckoned 
him  from  before,  and  then  faded  into  the  fast  clos- 
ing darkness  behind.  His  muscular  legs  grew  weary 
from  the  continued  effort  of  pulling  his  weighted 
feet  from  the  freezing  mud.  An  hour  later  he  had 
trudged  over  the  last  of  three  rolling  hills,  and  be- 
low him  appeared  the  blurred  outlines  of  the  little 
village  which  he  sought.  Save  for  its  scattered 
window  lights,  it  was  almost  indistinguishable  in  the 
gray- white  dusk,  for  its  jumbled  roofs  had  changed 
from  terra-cotta  to  white,  and  its  uniformly  gray 
walls  faded  into  the  sky  with  scarcely  a  suggestion 
of  demarcation.  Still,  his  goal  now  lay  before  him, 
and  he  consciously  quickened  his  steps,  while  the 
rhythm  of  his  heart-beats  responded,  subconsciously. 

He  entered  the  silent  town,  through  which  an 
army  might  to-night  have  marched  without  a  foot- 
fall being  audible.  Not  a  person  was  in  sight,  but, 
from  a  long  cement  barrack  upon  a  slight  elevation 


THE  ROAD  TO  MIRABELLE   127 

beside  the  roadway,  there  came  the  muffled  sound  of 
voices  and  laughter,  and  the  clink  of  tin  on  tin.  It 
announced  the  hour  of  the  soldiers'  "  soup,"  and 
Daniel  suddenly  realized  that  his  own  anatomy 
yearned  for  food.  Somewhere  in  the  distance  ahead 
a  dog  barked  his  entreaty  to  be  allowed  to  go  in- 
doors out  of  the  snow  and  cold,  and  the  man  ex- 
perienced a  strong  desire  to  sit  down,  and  howl  in 
sympathy.  His  imagination  pictured  the  thought, 
and  it  struck  him  as  so  ludicrous  that  he  laughed, 
and  stepped  out  again  in  better  humor,  mentally 
calling  out  "  good  appetite  "  to  the  unseen  diners. 


CHAPTER  X 

THE  PROPHECY  OF  OLD  BARBETTE 

INDEED  Daniel  had  traversed  nearly  the  full  length 
of  the  village's  main  street,  and  was  drawing  near 
to  the  severely  plain  church  which  raised  one  square 
tower  dimly  into  the  gray  darkness  above,  before  he 
saw  a  person. 

A  cheerful  glow  spilled  out  from  the  open  door  of 
a  small,  shed-like  affair,  built  in  an  angle  of  the 
church,  close  beside  the  high  arched  entrance,  and, 
silhouetted  against  the  panel  of  light,  a  motionless 
sentry  was  standing  his  lonely  vigil.  Another  and 
smaller  illuminated  square  —  a  window  —  was  tri- 
sected by  two  thin  bars  of  black.  "  Why,  it's  a 
guard  house !  "  thought  Daniel.  "  What  a  strange 
place  to  put  it  —  what  an  anomaly.  But,  after  all, 
it  is  rather  symbolic,  the  everlasting  arms  stretched 
out  around  those  in  prison  and  affliction." 

With  a  feeling  of  relief,  he  obliquely  approached 
the  sentry,  and  addressed  him.  "  Pardon,  Monsieur, 
but  can  you  perhaps  tell  me  where  I  may  find  a 
lodging  for  the  night  ?  " 

128 


PROPHECY  OF  OLD  BARBETTE  129 

The  poilu  shook  the  snow  from  his  shoulders,  and 
answered,  "A  lodging?  I  regret,  but  I  do  not 
know,  Monsieur.  The  village  is  full  of  troops,  and  I 
am  afraid  that  every  spare  room  has  been  requisi- 
tioned for  the  use  of  our  officers.  Que  voules-vous? 
The  '  class  *  must  have  the  best  there  is,  you  know. 
However,  it  will  do  no  harm  for  you  to  inquire  at 
the  corner  house,  there;  the  billeting  officer  may, 
perhaps,  know  of  a  place.  If  not,  there  is  a  larger 
village  on  the  other  side  of  the  river,  where  possibly 
.  .  .  '  He  finished  with  another  expressive  shrug 
of  his  shoulders. 

Daniel's  heart  sank;  his  weariness  flowed  back, 
redoubled.  He  knew  that  this  was  no  more  than  he 
might  reasonably  have  expected,  for  experience 
should  have  taught  him  that  it  was  the  everyday 
lot  of  most  villages  in  that  area  to  be  overcrowded, 
but  this  did  not  prevent  him  from  feeling  rebellious 
disappointment. 

It  had  not  been  his  intention,  on  so  dismal  a  night, 
to  visit  the  le  Jeune  family,  with  the  message  which 
could  not  but  re-open  old  heart-wounds,  but  now  he 
determined  to  do  so,  and  thus  accomplish  his  pri- 
mary purpose  in  visiting  Mirabelle.  He  would  ful- 
fil his  promise,  and  then  dismiss  the  whole  matter 
from  his  mind. 

"  Yes,"  he  replied.    "  I'll  follow  your  suggestion, 


130   THE  MAID  OF  MIRABELLE 

but  first  I  have  an  errand  to  perform  here.  I  want 
to  •find  the  home  of  the  le  Jeune  family.  Do  you 
happen  to  know  where  they  live  ?  " 

"  I  regret,  Monsieur,  but  again  I  cannot  help 
you.  My  battalion  has  but  recently  come  to  this 
village,  and  I  am  not  acquainted  with  any  of  the 
civilians,  as  yet.  Perhaps  if  there  are  some  pretty 
daughters  in  the  le  Jeune  household,  and  Monsieur 
will  come  back  a  week  hence  and  ask  me  that  ques- 
tion .  .  .  '  He  laughed  so  frankly  that  Daniel 
could  not  help  joining  him. 

"  But  look !  There  is  someone  who  may  be  able 
to  tell  you."  The  soldier  pointed  through  the  gloom, 
and  Daniel  made  out  a  queer,  distorted  figure  of  an 
old  woman,  who  was  toiling  painfully  along,  with 
her  misshapen  back  still  further  bent  beneath  the 
weight  of  a  load  of  snow-covered  branches.  "  She 
is  an  old  hag  —  a  sort  of  gypsy  —  who  lives  around 
the  corner,  and  on  pleasant  days  sells  little  trinkets 
from  a  push  cart,  and  tells  fortunes  for  the  poilus." 

"  Thank  you,  Monsieur."  Saluting,  Daniel  has- 
tened towards  the  retreating  figure,  which  had  now, 
panting  audibly,  paused  to  re-adjust  the  heavy 
burden. 

As  the  American  approached  he  saw  a  strange 
and  pitiful  picture,  for  the  light  from  a  window  of 
the  little  shop  where  Joan  did  her  purchasing,  fil- 


tered  wanly  through  the  sheeting  snow,  and  illu- 
minated the  old  woman.  He  took  only  passing  note 
of  her  shapeless  garments,  which  were  scarcely  more 
than  an  assortment  of  rags,  so  patched  were  they, 
or  of  her  feet,  although  a  glimpae  of  her  bare  ankles 
which  showed  above  the  wooden  shoes,  made  him 
shiver.  It  was  rather  her  unusual  face  which 
gripped  his  imaginative  mind,  for  it  looked  as  old 
as  the  ages,  yet,  underneath  the  scanty  white  eye- 
brows, burned  two  eyes  like  living  coals.  Stringy 
locks  of  iron-gray  hair,  wet  with  melting  snow, 
escaped  from  beneath  the  frayed  black  shawl  around 
her  head,  and  were  plastered  to  a  wrinkled  counte- 
nance, the  color  and  texture  of  tanned  leather. 

"  Permit  me,  mother."  Without  waiting  for  her 
to  get  over  her  surprise,  and  make  reply,  he  seized 
the  clumsy  bundle  of  uneven  fagots,  and  shifted  it 
from  her  deformed  back  to  his  own  broad  shoulder. 
"  They  are  heavy,  I  will  carry  them  for  you." 

He  started  forward,  and,  as  his  new  companion 
hobbled  along  by  his  side,  she  began  to  speak  in  a 
voice  so  cracked  and  unsteady,  and  so  blurred  with  a 
southern  accent  unfamiliar  to  Daniel's  ears,  as  to 
be  almost  unintelligible.  Nevertheless,  he  managed 
to  make  out  the  words,  "  Thank  you  heartily,  young 
and  kind  Monsieur.  You  are  very  considerate." 
And  then.  "  It  is  a  villainous  night,  is  it  not?  " 


132    THE  MAID  OF  MIRABELLE 

"  Yes,  terrible,  and  it  is  rapidly  growing  much 
colder.  You  will  have  need  of  the  firewood  this  eve- 
ning." 

"  It  is  true.  The  hot  blood  of  youth  courses 
swiftly  in  young  veins,  like  yours,  but  in  mine  it  is 
slow,  slow.  I  suffer  much,  but  it  is  the  will  of  the 
good  God  that  I  should  live  on  and  on,  so  I  do  not 
complain."  Her  words  became  a  muttered  jumble, 
and  she  rubbed  her  bony  fingers,  stiff  and  blue  with 
the  cold,  until  their  joints  cracked. 

"  You  live  far  from  here,  mother?  " 

"  But  no ;  not  far,  not  far.  My  home  is  just 
around  the  corner.  Yes,  just  around  the  corner  is 
rest  ...  it  is  always  so,  is  it  not,  Monsieur?  " 

Not  quite  certain  whether  he  was  listening  to  the 
ravings  of  a  cracked  brain,  or  the  wisdom  of  a  ven- 
erable philosopher,  Daniel  contented  himself  with 
nodding. 

"  He  speaks  the  French  well,  yes,  very  well,  but 
he  is  nevertheless  a  foreigner,  the  young  Monsieur,'* 
she  continued,  as  though  talking  to  herself.  "  And 
he  is  not  an  Englishman  ...  ah,  I  know,  I  know 
them  all.  I  see  a  far  distant  land  across  broad 
stretches  of  blue  water,  which  he  will  recross  not 
many  moons  from  now.  He  will  be  happy  at  last, 
there  by  his  own  fireside,  but  first  there  is  to  be 
much  unhappiness  for  him;  yes,  much  unhappiness. 


He  loves  our  France,  he  wishes  her  well,  but  she 
will  repay  his  kindness  with  sorrow  and  suffering, 
for  I  see  a  shadow  before  him,  a  heavy  shadow 
which  lies  across  his  path.  Ah,  it  is  too  bad,  too 
bad,  for  he  is  kind  of  heart,  the  young  Monsieur." 

Daniel  very  nearly  stopped  from  shocked  surprise, 
as  his  brain  caught  the  significance  of  her  mum- 
blings. He  felt  that  it  was  childish  of  him,  but  the 
dreary  setting  and  the  hag's  unpleasant  predictions 
gripped  his  heart  like  a  cold  hand,  for  an  instant. 
"  Of  course  the  poor  old  thing  is  utterly  mad,"  he 
decided,  but  he  could  not  help  remembering  that  the 
sentinel  had  declared  her  to  be  a  fortune-teller. 
Certainly  the  experience  was  proving  anything  but 
agreeable. 

As  though  she  had  actually  read  his  thoughts,  the 
old  woman  uttered  a  mirthless  cackle,  and  cried, 
"  Oh,  la,  la,  the  heart  of  the  young  Monsieur 
is  disturbed;  perhaps  he  thinks  that  poor  old 
Barbette  is  a  witch,,  because  she  says  that  evil 
lies  in  the  pathway  before  him  —  as  though  evil 
were  not  the  lot  of  all  mortal  men;  and  because  she 
has  declared  that  he  is  kind  of  heart,  which  any  fool 
could  tell,  since  he  helps  a  poor  old  woman  with 
her  burdens.  But  perhaps  old  Barbette  may  be  able 
to  repay  his  kindness  some  day;  yes,  perhaps  some 
day  she  can  help  him.  Who  knows  ?  " 


134   THE  MAID  OF  MIRABELLE 

s» 

Then,  abruptly,  she  turned  and  addressed  Daniel 
direct. 

"  You  are  dressed  in  uniform,  like  a  soldier,  but 
you  are  not  a  soldier,  Monsieur;  I  see  no  blood  on 
your  hands.  Do  I  not  speak  the  truth,  young  Mon- 
sieur ?  " 

"  Yes,  you  are  quite  right,"  Daniel  agreed,  un- 
comfortably. "  I  belong  to  the  American  Society  of 
Friends,  which  tries  to  relieve,  and  not  to  cause 
suffering  in  the  world." 

"  Ah,  that  is  good,  good.  Although  it  seems 
sometimes  necessary  to  cause  pain  in  order,  in 
the  end,  to  cure  it.  Still,  I  think  that  too  much  blood 
has  been  shed  of  late,  for  nowadays  I  see  it  every- 
where —  on  the  hands  and  in  the  hearts  of  men. 
Take  care  that  you  do  not  dip  your  hands  in  it, 
also,  Monsieur." 

Daniel  forced  a  laugh  to  cover  his  uneasiness. 
"  There  is  little  danger  of  that,  Madame.  I  am  not 
a  soldier,  you  know;  and,  besides,  the  righting  is 
over." 

"  '  The  fighting  is  over,'  says  he !  "  she  derided. 
"  The  war  may  be  ended,  yes,  but  while  men  are 
men,  and  kin  to  the  beasts,  fighting  will  never  cease. 
Old  Barbette  has  said  it,  and  she  knows.  Don't  for- 
get, too,  that  she  has  warned  you." 

They  turned  the  corner  full  into  the  face  of  the 


[PROPHECY  OF  OLD  BARBETTE  135 

storm,  which  swept,  shrieking,  down  the  hillside 
road,  but  close  against  a  high  wall,  and  in  its  deep 
shadow,  Daniel  made  out  the  blurred  shape  of  a  tiny, 
one-room  cabin,  perched  on  wheels.  A  light  shone 
through  a  small  square  window,  and  it  seemed  to 
him  as  though  he  caught  a  glimpse  of  an  elfish  face, 
drawn,  and  as  white  as  the  world  outside,  pressed 
for  an  instant  against  the  snow-streaked  glass.  The 
old  woman  veered  toward  it,  panting  and  mutter- 
ing. 

"  It  is  here,  then,  that  you  dwell,  mother?  " 
"  But  yes.  Is  it  not  magnificent  ?  "  She  spoke 
with  a  derisive  cackle.  "  Still,  it  is  cosy,  and  plenty 
big  enough  for  old  Barbette,  even  though  once 
she  .  .  .  But  why  think  of  the  days  that  are  gone? 
A  roof  to  shelter  one  from  the  storm,  a  little  fire  to 
warm  one,  and  a  place  to  lay  the  weary  head  is  more 
than  had  the  Son  of  Man;  and  what  more  needs 
man,  who  is  kin  to  the  beasts  ?  " 

He  helped  her  up  the  slippery  steps  to  the  little 
place  which  served  both  as  driver's  platform  and 
front  porch,  and  not  until  she  had  her  clawlike  hand 
on  the  latch  of  the  door,  did  he  remember  his  pri- 
mary reason  for  joining  her.  Raising  his  voice 
above  the  gibberish  of  the  winds,  he  called,  "  There 
is  something  that  I  forgot  to  ask  you,  Madame.  I 


136    THE  MAID  OF  MIRABELLE 

am  seeking  the  home  of  the  le  Jeune  family.  Can 
you,  perhaps,  direct  me  to  it  ?  " 

"The  le  Jeunes,  then?  Yes,  certainly.  If  the 
moon  were  shining,  and  directly  behind  you,  you 
would  have  but  to  follow  your  shadow  to  the  top  of 
the  hjll  and  enter  the  last  house  on  the  left  in  order 
to  find  them.  Aye,  aye,  merely  to  follow  your 
shadow,"  she  repeated,  wagging  her  head,  and  Dan- 
iel found  himself  wondering  if  there  were  any  hid- 
den meaning  in  her  peculiar  manner  of  giving  the 
directions.  Was  she  still  referring  to  himself,  or 
could  she  read  his  thoughts,  and  foresee  that  he  was 
bringing  a  shadow  out  of  the  valley  of  death  to  the 
le  Jeune  family? 

"  Thank  you,  mother.  I  am  not  rich  like  so  many 
Americans,  but  if  you  will  accept  a  trifle  —  perhaps 
as  compensation  for  the  fortune  which  you  have  told 
me  —  I  shall  be  happy."  He  reached  up,  and 
slipped  a  franc  piece  into  her  hand. 

"  A  thousand  thanks,  Monsieur.  Old  Barbette 
was  not  mistaken  when  she  said  that  you  were 
kind  of  heart,  and  she  will  not  forget;  no,  she  will 
not  forget.  Good-night,  and  may  the  good  God  at- 
tend you  always." 

"  Thank  you.     Good-night,  mother." 

A  stumbling  walk,  all  too  brief  in  which  to  decide 
just  what  he  meant  to  say  on  his  arrival,  and  how 


PROPHECY  OF  OLD  BARBETTE  137 

best  to  say  it,  brought  him  opposite  the  last  house 
on  the  hillside  —  a  two-storied,  cement  cottage 
somewhat  smaller  than  its  neighbors,  which,  per- 
haps, accounted  for  the  fact  that  its  front  wall  bore 
no  wooden  sign  announcing  that  it  served  as  military 
quarters  for  so  many  men,  and  so  many  horses.  A 
dark  smudge  at  the  right  hand  indicated  the  pres- 
ence of  an  entrance,  and  a  dull  glow  of  curtained 
light  in  a  lower  window  told  the  story  of  a  family 
circle  within.  Daniel  turned  up  the  short  path,  hes- 
itated, stamped  his  wet  feet  on  the  silencing  snow  to 
start  a  little  circulation  in  them,  and  then  strode  de- 
terminedly forward  into  the  pitch  black  entryway, 
to  meet  the  uncertain  welcome  that  awaited  him. 
A  pencil  line  of  light  at  one  side  showed  the  location 
of  a  door,  and  he  knocked. 

There  was  the  sound  of  a  scraping  chair,  the 
shuffle  of  woolen-slippered  feet  from  within.  Then 
the  door  opened  part  way,  and  he  saw  the  bent 
shoulders,  and  kindly,  wrinkled  face  of  a  seemingly 
old  man,  who  peered  inquiringly  at  him  through  the 
small  lenses  of  a  pair  of  rusty  steel-rimmed  spec- 
tacles. 

"  Good-evening.     Monsieur  seeks  ...   ?  " 
"  I  beg  your  pardon  for  troubling  you  on  such  a 
night,  but  I  am  looking  for  the  house  of  Monsieur 
lejeune.    Is  this  .  .  .  ?" 


138    THE  MAID  OF  MIRABELLE 

"  But  yes.    I  am  he.    You  wish  to  see  ...    ?  " 

Daniel  hesitated,  then  said,  as  gently  as  possible, 
"  You  are  then  the  father  of  ...  of  Henri  le 
Jeune,  late  of  the  French  artillery?" 

"  Henri !  Oh,  mon  dieu,  mon  dieu!  "  came  from 
within  the  room  in  a  woman's  voice. 

"  Hush,  my  mother.  Hush  then,  dear.  Father, 
ask  Monsieur  to  enter.  Perhaps  he  has  some  word 
.  .  .  some  message  .  .  .  ' 

The  man  shuffled  backwards,  his  seamed  hands 
clasped  and  working,  and  Daniel  followed  him  into 
the  little  room,  with  a  word  of  apology  for  the  snow 
which  fell  from  his  coated  garments  to  melt  on  the 
tiled  floor.  Feeble  as  was  the  illumination  from  the 
single  unshaded  lamp,  his  eyes,  adjusted  to  the  dark- 
ness, could  not,  for  an  instant,  make  out  the  details 
of  the  picture  before  him.  All  that  he  knew  was 
that  five  mistily  white  faces  had  turned  startled, 
wondering  eyes  upon  him. 

Then,  as  the  scene  cleared  to  his  vision,  all  save 
one  faded  from  his  notice.  For  directly  in  front  of 
him,  with  the  shadow  of  a  hidden  pain  making  more 
than  ever  appealing  her  sweet,  sensitive  face,  was 
the  girl  of  the  picture  card  —  Joan. 


CHAPTER  XI 

THE  HEART  OF  A  HOME 

STANDING,  Daniel  very  simply  told  the  story  of 
his  brief  acquaintance  with  the  boy  who  had  died, 
delivered  his  message,  and  placed  the  picture  in 
Joan's  outstretched  hands.  She  gave  it  one  glance,  a 
slight  shudder  passed  through  her  and  her  lips  trem- 
bled for  the  briefest  instant,  but  no  tears  came  to 
her  large  and  luminous  eyes  as  she  bent  her  head, 
and  pressed  the  card  close  against  her  breast. 

His  words  had  been  addressed  to  them  all,  but  it 
was  as  though  he  spoke  to  the  girl  alone,  and  it  was 
she,  only,  of  whom  he  was  conscious  when  he  had 
finished.  He  realized,  but  only  in  a  vague  way,  that 
her  mother  and  apparently  younger  sister  were  sob- 
bing freely,  and  that  Monsieur  le  Jeune  was  un- 
steadily pressing  a  large  colored  handkerchief  to  his 
bearded  lips.  There  was  an  aged  woman  present, 
also,  but  she  had  not  moved  since  his  entrance,  and 
still  sat  gazing  stolidly  before  her. 

And  it  was  Joan  who  spoke  first,  saying  in  a  low, 
139 


140    THE  MAID  OF  MIRABELLE 

liquid  voice,  "  Thank  you,  Monsieur,  you  have  been 
most  kind  to  bring  to  us  the  message,  which  we  shall 
always  cherish  in  our  hearts.  We  knew  that  my 
dear  brother  surely  died  like  a  true  Frenchman,  but 
it  is  good  to  hear  it  also,  and  from  the  lips  of  one 
who  knew  him."  Then,  for  the  first  time,  the  even 
flow  of  her  musical  voice  broke,  she  turned  abruptly 
away  with  her  hands  covering  her  pale  face,  and 
Daniel  heard  the  barely  whispered  words,  "Oh,  God, 
why  could  it  not  have  been  I  instead  ?  "  Instantly 
the  younger  girl  was  by  her  side  with  arms  about  her 
shoulders,  and  the  light  hair  mingled  with  the  dark 
as  she  pressed  her  lips  to  Joan's  neck. 

Ill  at  ease,  the  American  ventured  the  words,  "  He 
was  a  wonderfully  fine  lad,  Monsieur.  Although  I 
really  talked  with  him  only  that  once,  I  somehow 
felt  when  I  saw  him  again  .  .  .  there  at  the  hospital 
...  as  though  I  had  found  a  friend.  He  was  so 
boyish,  and  so  brave,  that  I  know  I  shall  never  for- 
get him.  Was  he  ...  was  his  body  .  .  .  brought 
home?" 

"  Yes,  Monsieur,  we  have  that  small  comfort," 
answered  Joan,  as  she  faced  him,  dry-eyed  once 
more.  "  He  lies  over  yonder  in  the  little  graveyard 
where  we  can  see  the  cross  above  him,  and  every  day 
be  reminded  of  his  sacrifice.  And  so  we  thank  the 
dear  Lord,  for  he  does  not  lie  in  an  unmarked  grave 


THE  HEART  OF  A  HOME     141 

on  the  battlefield.  Perhaps  it  is  foolish,  but  some- 
how his  spirit  seems  to  be  ...  at  home,  again." 

"  It  would  have  been  with  you  in  any  event,  I  am 
sure,  for  he  thought  of  you  always,  his  friend  Jean 
said.  But  I  think  that  I  understand,  Mademoiselle." 

"  And  the  young  soldier  .  .  .  Jean  ?  Is  he  ... 
was  he  much  wounded  ?  You  see  we  know  him  also, 
Monsieur." 

There  was  a  sweet  note  of  entreaty  in  the  girl's 
voice,  a  perfectly  natural  one,  but  Daniel  expe- 
rienced a  slight  sense  of  inexplicable  irritation,  and 
was  angry  at  himself  for  so  doing.  "  No,"  he  re- 
plied. "  His  arm  was  torn  by  fragments  of  the  same 
shell,  but  it  has  now  healed."  And  he  described 
their  later  meeting  in  Verdun,  ending  by  inquiring, 
"  It  is  here  that  his  little  sisters  and  brother  live,  is 
it  not?" 

"  But  yes,  almost  across  the  street.  Ah,  the  little 
Pierre.  Monsieur  would  both  laugh  and  cry  over 
him,  he  is  so  pathetic,  and  so  sweet." 

"  I'm  sure  that  I  should  like  to  see  them  all,  for  I 
love  children  passionately,"  Daniel  rejoined,  as  he 
picked  up  his  cap  and  took  a  step  backward. 

The  others  stood  up,  except  the  old  grandmother, 
and  Monsieur  le  Jeune  moved  slowly  with  hand 
held  out,  and  trembling.  "  We  desire  to  thank  you, 
my  wife  and  I,  for  your  visit  will  mean  much  to  us 


142    THE  MAID  OF  MIRABELLE 

in  the  days  that  are  before,  Monsieur  ...  I  do  not 
yet  know  your  name,"  he  said. 

"  It  is  Steele  —  Daniel  Steele,  Monsieur." 

"  Ah,  yes.  Monsieur  Steele.  I  hope  that  some 
day  we  may  be  able  to  repay  your  kindness  to  us; 
and  now  will  you  permit  me  to  offer  you  a  little 
liqueur,  perhaps  a  glass  of  the  Mirabelle  made  from 
my  own  trees?  You  are  wet,  and  surely  cold, 
also." 

"  Thank  you,  but  I  do  not  drink  .  .  .  except, 
possibly,  a  glass  of  water,  for  I  am  somewhat 
thirsty." 

"  And  perhaps  hungry,  as  well,  Monsieur?  You 
have  not  dined?  "  It  was  Joan's  voice  that  broke  in, 
with  solicitude.  "  You  must  pardon  us  for  having 
been  so  forgetful  of  common  hospitality,  but  your 
message  .  .  .  Are  you  staying  in  our  village,  Mon- 
sieur? I  think  not,  for  I  have  never  seen  you  before, 
and  every  one  in  Mirabelle  knows  when  there  is  a 
stranger  here  —  except  the  soldiers,  of  course.  Is  it 
then  possible  that,  on  such  a  frightful  night,  you 
have  come  from  some  other  place  simply  to  tell  us 
about  .  .  .  about  Henri  ?  " 

"  To  tell  the  truth,  I  have  just  arrived  in  Mira- 
belle, coming  from  X  ...  but  not  entirely  for  the 
reason  you  have  suggested.  I  had  hoped  to  find  a 
place  to  stay,  here,  since  my  work  is  to  be  in  the 


THE  HEART  OF  A  HOME     143 

near-by  ruined  area,  but  I  am  told  that  there  is  little 
chance  of  it  —  the  village  is  filled  with  troops,  is  it 
not?" 

Instead  of  answering  his  question,  Joan  ex- 
claimed, "Monsieur!  You  have  just  arrived,  and 
the  train  reached  B  .  .  .  across  the  river,  hours 
ago.  Then  you  must  have  walked  all  the  way,  and 
we  would  have  permitted  you  to  go  away  —  out 
into  the  storm  again  —  like  this.  Oh,  I  am  humili- 
ated. And  you  have  eaten  nothing,  is  it  not  so? 
Mother,  dost  thou  understand  ?  The  kind  American 
has  eaten  nothing.  Quick,  Suzette,  put  on  the  kettle. 
No,  you  must  stay,  we  insist,  Monsieur.  It  will  be 
but  a  moment  before  we  have  something  prepared, 
which  will  be  at  least  hot  and  nourishing,  even  if 
the  fare  is  simple."  In  her  eagerness,  Joan  had 
placed  her  hands  against  Daniel's  shoulders,  en- 
deavoring to  push  him  into  a  chair,  and  the  contact 
gave  him  a  thrill  of  pleasure.  He  protested,  but  the 
pangs  of  a  very  real  hunger  made  his  protests  faint, 
and,  besides,  they  were  lost  in  the  bustle  of  prepara- 
tion. 

Thus  it  resulted,  that  a  few  moments  later  he 
found  himself  seated  at  the  plain  wooden  table  before 
a  steaming  bowl  of  savory  stew,  part  of  a  loaf  of 
French  bread,  a  saucer  of  Mirabelle  confiture,  and 
a  thick  cup  of  piping  hot,  black  coffee  which  mother 


le  Jeune  had  insisted  upon  sweetening  to  a  degree 
far  beyond  what  was  palatable  to  him.  His  cour- 
tesy remonstrances  had  gone  for  nothing  and  he 
could  not  press  them,  for  he  had  recognized  in  her 
act  the  true  spirit  of  sacrifice,  which  had  brought  to 
his  Biblically  trained  mind  the  story  of  the  woman 
of  Bethany  with  her  box  of  precious  ointment. 

Across  the  table  from  him,  with  their  chairs 
drawn  close  within  the  radius  of  the  single  light, 
the  four  women  were  already  re-engaged  in  their 
work  —  the  old  grandmother  bent  low  over  one  of 
her  son's  coarse  socks  which  she  was  darning,  and 
the  others  over  their  dainty  needlework.  After  the 
scenes  of  desolation,  in  the  midst  of  which  his  life 
had  lately  been  set,  the  simple  picture  of  domesticity 
warmed  and  soothed  the  watcher's  heart.  Daniel 
in  the  main  kept  his  eyes  bent  on  his  plate,  from 
which  the  food  was  rapidly  vanishing  before  the  on- 
slaught of  a  healthy  appetite,  but  he  seldom  glanced 
up  without  encountering  the  gaze  of  the  younger 
girl,  fixed  upon  him  with  the  frank  curiosity  of  a 
child.  For  a  time  the  father  puttered  about  the 
room,  doing  little  unnecessary  things,  but  he  finally 
seated  himself  beside  their  visitor  and  began  to  con- 
verse. 

!<  You  will  pardon  me,  Monsieur,  but  I  think  that 
I  do  not  quite  understand  what  you  are.  Is  it  that 


THE  HEART  OF  A  HOME     145 

you  belong  to  the  Red  Cross,  for  you  speak  of  work- 
ing in  the  destroyed  villages  ?  " 

"  I  belong  to  an  organization  affiliated  with  the 
Red  Cross,  Monsieur  —  the  American  Society  of 
Friends  —  have  you  ever  heard  of  it?" 

"  But  yes,  and  of  you,  Monsieur,"  responded  his 
wife.  "  Surely,  Auguste,  you  remember  the  last 
letter  from  our  Henri,  in  which  he  described  the 
meeting  with  Monsieur  at  the  Foyer  du  Soldat" 

"  To  be  sure.  It  was  then  he,  of  whom  Joan 
said  ..." 

"  Father!  "  cried  the  girl.  "  Monsieur,  I  owe  you 
an  apology,  for  I  must  admit  that  then  I  did  not 
understand,  and  I  thought  that  I  would  not  like  one 
who  would  not  fight  against  the  Boche."  She 
blushed  hotly. 

"  I  understand,  and  I  do  not  blame  you,  having 
seen  what  I  have  since  reaching  this  area.  Our  faith 
forbids  us  to  bear  arms,  and  fight  in  battle  against 
other  men,  but  there  is  another  kind  of  fighting  — 
that  against  sorrow  and  suffering.  It  is  to  engage  in 
that,  that  we  have  come  to  France,  and  to  do  our 
little  best  to  help  the  homeless  and  fatherless,  as  all 
men  are  commanded  to  do." 

"  Yes,  now  I  understand  better,"  said  her  father. 
"  It  is  a  noble  work,  truly,  and  one  which  our  poor 
France  stands  sadly  in  need  of,  now.  Verily  the 


146    THE  MAID  OF  MIRABELLE 

Americans  have  saved  us,  and  we  owe  you  all,  more 
than  we  can  ever  repay.  Would  you  be  willing  to 
tell  us  something  about  the  work  which  you  have 
been  doing?  " 

Daniel  cheerfully  supplied  a  brief  outline  of  the 
labors  of  his  organization  in  the  two  regions  around 
Verdun  and  Chateau  Thierry,  and  then,  carried 
along  by  his  own  enthusiasm,  recounted  a  number  of 
the  interesting  and  pathetic  incidents  which  he  had 
witnessed,  helped  out  by  Joan,  who  seemed  often  to 
divine  the  thought  in  his  mind,  and  supply  the  elu- 
sive word,  when  he  became  lost  in  the  intricacies  of 
the  foreign  language. 

"  So  now  you  are  to  carry  on  the  same  sort  of 
work  here  between  the  Moselle  and  the  Meuse,  is  it 
not  so?" 

"  Yes." 

"  And  that  is  why  you  had  hoped  to  find  some 
place  to  stay  here  in  Mirabelle,  because  it  is  so  near 
the  scene  of  your  task  ?  " 

"  Just  so.  But  I  might  have  guessed  that  all  the 
villages  in  this  neighborhood  would  be  harboring 
troops." 

"  Hmmm."  Daniel  caught  a  glance  and  a  nod 
pass  between  the  man  and  his  wife,  and  tried  to  ap- 
pear unconscious  of  the  whispered  conversation 
which  ensued  between  her  and  Joan.  But  his  heart 


THE  HEART  OF  A  HOME     147 

thumped  in  anticipation,  nevertheless,  and  he  was 
prepared  to  hear  the  former  say,  earnestly,  "  If 
Monsieur  thinks  that  he  would  care  to  remain  in  our 
little  house,  at  least  until  he  finds  some  place  which 
might  suit  him  better,  it  would  be  our  pleasure." 

"  Truly  you  are  very  kind  to  suggest  it,  Madame, 
but  I  could  not  think  of  disarranging  your  house- 
hold. You  see,  I  feel  certain  that  you  have  not  a 
spare  room." 

"  But  we  have,  we  have,  Monsieur,"  Suzette  burst 
out.  "  There  is  Joan's  room,  and  she  can  sleep  with 
me  as  she  did  last  summer  when  the  other  American 
—  the  captain  —  was  here." 

"Suzette,  why  didst  thou  say,  in  my  room?" 
Joan  chided,  reproachfully.  "  You  must  not  mis- 
understand, Monsieur.  We  often  sleep  together, 
Suzette  and  I,  even  when  we  have  no  guest,  for  she 
is  a  very  naughty  child,  and  needs  some  one  to 
watch  over  her  always." 

"  So  I  am  naughty,  then,  Joan  ?  Very  well,  when 
we  go  to  bed  to-night  I  shall  pinch  thee,  so  that 
thou  wilt  not  be  disappointed,"  the  child-woman 
answered  mischievously. 

"  Hush,  perverse  one.  I,  too,  can  pinch."  There 
was  a  little  laughter  which  put  a  smile  in  Daniel's 
own  heart,  and  he  thought,  "  How  different  Joan 
looks  when  she  smiles;  not  prettier,  perhaps,  which 


148    THE  MAID  OF  MIRABELLE 

is  scarcely  possible,  but  more  bewitchingly  fascinat- 
ing." And  for  the  first  time  he  realized  that  the 
younger  girl  was  also  unusually  attractive,  although 
still  in  the  bud. 

"  So  it  is  all  arranged,  my  mother.  The  Amer- 
ican Monsieur  shall  not  go  out  into  the  storm  to- 
night, and  he  shall  stay  here  as  long  as  he  likes  — 
for  he  was  a  friend  of  our  Henri,  and  shall  he  not, 
therefore,  be  always  a  friend  of  ours  as  well  ?  " 

"  But  yes,  always." 

"  I  cannot  thank  you  sufficiently,  Monsieur  and 
Madame;  you  are  too  generous,  but  I  will  gladly 
accept  your  hospitality  for  to-night,  although  of 
course  I  must  depart  to-morrow,  because  .  .  .  ' 

"  When  to-morrow  comes  we  shall  see,  but  we 
hope  that  you  will  want  to  stay,  for  already  we 
think  of  you  as  a  friend." 

"  And  perhaps  he  will  also  teach  us  the  English," 
cried  Suzette.  "  The  American  captain  started  to, 
and  I  know  a  few,  and  Joan  many,  words,  for  she 
studied  diligently,  although  I  think  it  was  because 
she  liked  to  sit  beside  him.  But  he  went  away  and 
now,  perhaps,  he  is  dead,  for  he  has  written  Joan 
only  once."  The  girl  jumped  up,  disregarding  her 
sister's  blushes  and  indignation,  and  opened  a 
drawer  in  the  cupboard  from  which  she  brought 
Daniel  a  picture  postcard  of  the  Place  Stanislaus,  in 


THE  HEAKT  OF  A  HOME    149 

Nancy,  with  a  brief  message  written  upon  it  in  Eng- 
lish. She  leaned  over  his  shoulder  and,  pointing  to 
the  signature,  said,  "  His  name  was  Captain  John 
Smith.  Did  you  know  him  in  America,  Monsieur? 
Joan  pretends  that  she  understands  what  he  has 
written,  but  I  am  sure  that  she  does  not.  Will  you 
tell  us,  Monsieur?" 

"  About  your  captain  ?  No,  I'm  afraid  that  I  do 
not  know  him.  You  see  America  is  a  pretty  large 
country  —  one  of  our  forty-eight  states  is  almost  as 
big  as  France  and  Germany,  combined.  He  merely 
says  that  he  is  going  into  battle  immediately,  and 
that  he  cannot  thank  Mile.  Joan,  and  all  of  you, 
(  enough  for  your  many  kindnesses  to  him.  He  will 
never  forget  you." 

"  There,  wise  one !  Did  I  not  say  as  much  ?  " 
teased  Joan. 

"  Ah,  but  thou  merely  guessed  it.  That  is  what 
any  one  would  have  said,  and  thou  knewest  that  the 
Americans  had  finished  their  training,  and  were  go- 
ing into  the  fighting." 

"  How  much  English  did  you  learn,  little  made- 
moiselle? Do  you  remember  any  of  it?"  queried 
Daniel. 

"  Yes,  I  remember  a  very  little,  but  I  cannot  tell 
you  now,  for  Joan  is  listening,  as  always."  Daniel 
amusedly  beckoned  to  her ;  she  came  close,  and,  with 


150    THE  MAID  OF  MIRABELLE 

her  lips  almost  against  his  ear,  whispered  with 
quaint  accent,  "  I  loff  you.  Giff  me  a  kees?  " 

The  man  was  a  little  shocked,  but  he  laughed, 
nevertheless,  as  he  said,  "  My,  but  you  were  an  apt 
pupil,  certainly.  How  old  are  you,  my  child  ?  " 

"  I  ?  Oh,  I  shall  be  sixteen  in  a  month,  Monsieur, 
so  I  am  no  longer  a  child.  And  Joan  is  nearly  four 
years  older  than  I.  Thou  art,  Joan,  for  when  a  girl 
has  passed  her  nineteenth  birthday  she  is  almost 
twenty  .  .  .  especially  if  she  is  not  already  married. 
Is  it  not  so,  Monsieur?" 

"  But  whom  should  a  poor  French  girl  marry, 
now?  Are  not  most  of  the  splendid  young  men  of 
France  dead  ?  "  demanded  her  sister. 

"  Jean  Harent  is  not  yet  dead,  and  there  are  many 
Americans  in  France,  who  are  not  married.  Are 
you,  Monsieur?  " 

Joan  blushed  furiously  again,  and  started  from 
her  seat,  crying,  "  Naughty  one,  for  that,  thou  shalt 
be  pinched  now,"  but  Daniel  shielded  the  tormenter 
with  his  big  form,  and  laughed  frankly  as  he  an- 
swered, "  No,  I  am  not  yet  married." 

"  Suzette,"  chided  her  mother,  mildly,  "  it  is  not 
fitting  for  thee  to  speak  thus  of  thy  sister,  and  be- 
fore a  stranger." 

"A  stranger,  my  mother?  But  has  he  not  him- 
self said  that  he  is  a  '  Friend?  '  " 


THE  HEART  OF  A  HOME     151 

"  I  shall  be  glad  to  have  you  count  me  one,  in 
fact  as  well  as  in  name,  if  you  will,  even  though 
you  have  known  me  but  a  short  time."  Daniel  now 
spoke  with  an  abrupt  return  to  his  natural  serious- 
ness, and  Monsieur  le  Jeune  answered  with  simple 
sincerity,  "  Thank  you,  Monsieur;  one  who  has  done 
what  you  have,  for  us,  and  for  our  poor  boy,  has 
earned  a  place  in  our  heart  of  hearts.  Please  feel 
that  this  is  hereafter  your  own  fireside  so  long  as 
you  wish  to  regard  it  as  such." 

"  I  could  ask  for  none  better,  and  am  more  than 
fortunate." 

"  It  is  we  who  are  fortunate.  Suzette,  go  thou 
quickly  and  prepare  Monsieur's  bed,  for  he  is  surely 
tired." 

The  younger  girl  departed,  and  left  silence  in  the 
room  for  a  moment.  His  new  host  then  offered 
Daniel  a  cigarette,  and,  when  it  was  declined,  asked 
permission  to  light  one  himself.  Leaning  back,  he 
blew  dreamy  blue  smoke  rings  ceilingward.  The 
needles  of  the  women  flashed  rapidly,  the  kettle 
sang  on  the  tiny  stove,  and  Mimite  —  who  appar- 
ently had  a  penchant  for  men  —  purred  lazily  on 
Daniel's  knees.  A  deep  contentment  filled  the  man. 

Joan  broke  the  stillness  by  asking,  "  You  have  a 
family  in  America,  Monsieur?" 

He  started  from  his  reverie.     "  Yes.     At  least  I 


152    THE  MAID  OF  MIRABELLE 

have  a  kind  step-father  and  mother,  with  whom, 
and  their  daughter,  I  live."  As  he  replied,  he  drew 
the  picture  of  Faith  from  his  pocket,  and  passed  it 
to  her. 

"  Ah,  she  is  very  lovely,  his  little  step-sister.  Is 
she  not,  my  mother  ?  " 

For  a  second  time  Daniel  was  startled  to  find 
himself  hesitating  to  explain  that  Faith  was  much 
more  to  him  than  a  sister.  The  words  were  on  his 
lips,  but  something  wholly  inexplicable  held  them 
there,  and  again  came  the  thought  that  it  was  rather 
a  difficult  explanation  to  make,  and  what  necessity 
was  there  of  making  it  at  all  ?  He  suffered  a  twinge 
of  conscience  and  was  angry  at  that,  as  well.  It 
was  all  over  in  a  flash,  and  Opportunity  had  fled  as 
swiftly,  for  Suzette  stormed  through  the  door,  with 
her  light-hearted  chatter  going  on  as  though  it  had 
not  been  interrupted  at  all.  For  a  few  moments 
longer  they  conversed  on  random  subjects,  and  then 
the  mother  —  who  had  previously  slipped  from  the 
room  unobserved  —  returned  to  announce  that  Mon- 
sieur's room  was  ready,  if  he  wished  to  go  to  it. 

Daniel  gratefully  assented,  for  he  was  thoroughly 
weary,  and  the  warmth  of  the  room  had  made  him 
drowsy,  as  well.  He  bade  his  hospitable  new  friends 
good-night  and  pleasant  repose,  and,  picking  up  his 
little  suit  case,  followed  Monsieur  le  Jeune  into  the 


THE  HEART  OF  A  HOME    153 

freezing  hallway  and  up  the  narrow  groaning  stairs, 
guided  by  the  flickering  light  of  a  candle.  The 
room  which  they  entered  was  also  chilly,  but  a 
newly  built  wood  fire,  in  the  small  porcelain  stove, 
was  crackling  cheerfully,  and  the  high,  four-post 
bedstead  with  its  billowy  feather  coverlid  and  crim- 
son quilt,  already  turned  down  for  him,  beckoned 
invitingly.  With  a  final  "  Sleep  well,"  the  old  man 
closed  the  door  behind  him,  and  shuffled  off  down 
stairs. 

Daniel  sighed  with  weary  satisfaction.  Standing 
close  to  the  little  stove,  that  gave  forth  a  comfort- 
ing warmth  to  which  he  had  long  been  foreign,  he 
divested  himself  of  his  clothing,  and  climbed  into 
woolen  pajamas.  Then  he  blew  out  the  candle 
flame,  flung  wide  open  the  French  window,  and  fled 
before  the  driving  assault  of  the  storm-laden  wind 
to  the  protection  of  the  high  bed,  into  whose  yield- 
ing depths  he  plunged.  Oh,  the  sensuous  delight 
of  a  real  bed  and  sheets,  after  weeks  of  a  sagging 
army  cot  of  canvas,  or  worse,  and  wrinkled  blankets 
made  Boy  Scout  fashion  to  counterfeit  a  sleeping- 
bag,  and  into  which  one  had  to  insinuate  oneself  by 
degrees. 

He  was  surprised  to  find  that  the  sheets  felt  de- 
lightfully warm  to  his  bare  feet,  and,  as  he  luxuri- 
ously stretched  at  full  length,  they  came  into  contact 


154   THE  MAID  OF  MIRABELLE 

with  something  hot  and  hard,  whose  smooth  contour 
proclaimed  a  stone  jug  filled  with  boiling  water. 

"  Blessings  on  the  woman !  "  he  murmured ;  then 
a  new  idea  sprang  to  his  mind.  Hot  water!  The 
wherewithal  to  take  a  real  bath,  which  was  a  rare 
luxury  in  that  region,  as  he  had  long  since  learned. 
On  the  instant  he  was  out  of  bed  again,  and  had 
relighted  the  candle.  Another,  and  the  lameness 
was  departing  from  his  tired  muscles  under  the 
soothing  influence  of  the  steaming  liquid.  The  sen- 
sation was  glorious,  and  he  blessed  Madame  anew, 
as  he  crawled  back  into  the  enveloping  feathers. 

Truly  Fortune  had  smiled  on  him  that  day,  for  he 
had  gained  more  than  physical  comfort  —  he  had 
found  his  way  into  the  heart  of  a  true  French  home. 
The  realization  brought  devout  gratitude.  "  It  is 
more  than  I  deserve,"  he  thought,  as  he  settled 
himself  for  sleep.  But,  despite  his  weariness  and 
all,  sleep  was  long  in  coming.  His  eyes  stared 
into  the  darkness  which  in  time  became  the  velvet 
background  for  Faith's  sweet  face,  and  there  grew 
within  his  heart  the  feeling  that  he  had  failed  in  his 
love  for  her.  Conscience  is  always  the  hardest 
taskmaster,  and  it  whispered  accusingly  that  he  had 
already  denied  her  twice  —  the  second  time  not  in 
words,  perhaps,  but  by  his  silence  which  gave  tacit 
assent  to  Joan's  statement.  Why?  Why?  He 


THE  HEART  OF  A  HOME     155 

could  assign  no  reason  for  it,  and  began  to  toss  and 
turn  uncomfortably.  And  then  his  now  wide-awake 
thoughts  reverted  to  the  girl  whom  he  heard  moving 
quietly  about  in  the  next  room,  and  simultaneously 
Lieutenant  Villier's  laughing  gibe  reoccurred  to  his 
mind,  "  Wait  until  you  meet  some  real  French  girl, 
perhaps  some  village  lass  with  all  the  fascination  of 
simplicity  added  to  that  which  is  inherent  in  every 
woman  of  our  race."  It  was  absurd;  what  could 
she  mean  to  him  ?  Yet  he  could  not  deny  to  himself 
that  she  had  already  exercised  a  strong  appeal  to  his 
senses.  Or  had  she?  Was  it  not,  rather,  the  en- 
vironment, the  peace  and  warmth  of  the  family 
fireside  after  the  toilsome  journey  through  the 
storm  and  bitter  night  ?  Yes,  that  was  it,  certainly. 
To-morrow  he  would  see  her  again  in  quite  a  differ- 
ent light,  and  besides,  he  could  not  think  of  further 
imposing  upon  his  new  friends,  by  prolonging  his 
stay.  Yet  .  .  .  how  good  the  warm,  comfortable 
bed  felt! 

And  then  his  mind  shifted  again  to  the  journey 
thither,  to  his  meeting  with  "  old  Barbette,"  as  she 
called  herself,  and  to  her  unpleasantly  prophetic 
mutterings.  "  A  shadow,  a  deep  shadow  across 
his  pathway  ahead."  What  on  earth  could  she  have 
meant  ? 

And  so,  he  fell  asleep. 


CHAPTER  XII 

THE    "  MORROW  " 

MORNING.  The  storm  was  over;  the  sun  shone 
brightly  upon  a  new  Mirabelle,  spotless,  white,  and 
glistening  —  a  village  such  as  might  have  housed 
Santa  Claus,  so  quaint  and  clean  it  looked  to  Daniel. 
On  the  roadway  beneath  his  window,  the  snow 
creaked  merrily  under  wooden  shoon,  and  scintil- 
lated prismic  colors.  The  air  seemed  fairly  to 
sparkle,  likewise,  and  so  did  Joan's  eyes,  as  he  en- 
tered the  downstairs  room  in  response  to  an  early 
call  to  petit  dejeuner  *  —  a  call  that  had  almost 
caught  him  napping  in  the  literal  sense,  for  the  soft 
warm  bed  had  held  him  with  a  tempter's  embrace. 

Daniel  would  have  honestly  scoffed,  had  any  one 
characterized  him  as  an  artist,  and  probably  no  one 
would  have  conceived  of  him  in  such  a  role,  he  was 
so  big,  so  outwardly  calm  and  practical,  but  —  like 

1  The  light  breakfast  of  coffee  with  milk,  and  bread. 
156 


THE  "MORROW"  157 

most  imaginative  people  —  he  had  a  keen  apprecia- 
tion for  the  beautiful  things,  and  the  picture  of  the 
girl  at  the  open  window,  with  the  golden  morning 
light  aureoling  her  dark  hair,  thrilled  him  anew 
with  delight.  The  cold,  which  would  have  killed  an 
earth  flower,  had  paradoxically  called  two  pink 
roses  to  life  in  her  cheeks,  and,  indeed,  all  of  the 
household,  even  to  the  aged  and  wrinkled  grandam, 
were  glowing  in  flesh  and  vibrant  in  spirit. 

To  his  relief,  no  mention  was  made  of  the  reason 
for  his  coming,  nor  was  he  surprised,  for  he  now 
knew  the  French  well  enough  to  understand  that  they 
can  hide  black  grief  beneath  bright  smiles,  as  can  no 
other  race  on  earth.  It  was  a  characteristic  which 
he  had  come  to  regard  as  Providential.  Further- 
more, during  the  desultory  conversation  which  ac- 
companied his  solitary  breakfast  of  cafe  au  lait, 
bread  and  jam,  not  a  word  was  said  about  the  pos- 
sibility of  his  departing.  Then,  as  he  finished  eating, 
he  tried  to  drive  himself  to  make  the  plunge  into  the 
unpleasant  subject,  with  an  idea  of  reiterating  his 
previous  night's  statement  that  he  could  not  think 
of  further  imposing  upon  their  hospitality.  But  he 
was  anticipated  by  Madame  le  Jeune,  who  remarked, 
"  I  am  glad  that  Monsieur  liked  the  room  and  slept 
well,  for  now  he  will  stay  with  us." 

Again,  a  faint  protest  for  courtesy's  sake  was  on 


158    THE  MAID  OF  MIRABELLE 

Daniel's  lips,  and  again  he  was  not  permitted  to 
utter  it,  for  Suzette  broke  gaily  in  with  the  question, 
"  But  tell  us,  Monsieur,  of  whom  did  you  dream  last 
night  ?  You  know  it  is  very  important  to  remember 
the  dreams  which  one  has  during  the  first  night 
spent  in  a  strange  bed,  for  it  means  that  .  .  .  ' 

"  Cease  thy  foolish  prattle,  Suzette,"  her  mother 
called  from  the  stove.  "  Monsieur  Steele  has  more 
important  things  to  think  of,  than  dreams." 

The  girl's  mischievously  expectant  look,  still  fixed 
on  his  face,  forced  him  to  answer,  however.  "  Of 
whom  did  I  dream,  then?  Why  ..."  he  laughed, 
to  cover  a  sudden  confusion,  and  felt  that  his  face 
was  growing  red.  "  Why,  I  really  don't  remember." 

But  he  did.  And  when,  an  instant  later,  he  stole  a 
sidewise  glance  at  Joan,  she,  too,  blushed  unaccount- 
ably, and  hurriedly  lowered  her  eyes  to  her  em- 
broidery. Desirous  of  changing  the  embarrassing 
subject,  he  announced,  "  It  is  so  pleasant  this  morn- 
ing that  I  think  I  shall  walk  to  the  nearest  of  the 
ruined  villages,  and  start  my  preliminary  examina- 
tion of  my  new  territory." 

"  Good,  if  Monsieur  desires,"  responded  Madame. 
"  But  may  I  make  a  suggestion  ?  It  is  that  since 
every  civilian  in  the  village  must  have  a  card  for  his 
allotment  of  sugar,  you  visit  the  office  of  the  Mayor 
and  apply  for  yours,  first  of  all.  Joan  shall  ac- 


THE  "MORROW"  159 

company  and  assist  you  in  doing  the  things  which 
are  necessary." 

"  Certainly,  I  shall  be  pleased  to  follow  your  sug- 
gestion, Madame  ...  if  you  are  quite  sure  that 
you  want  me  to  stay." 

"  That  is  already  settled,"  said  Joan,  with  a  brisk 
nod  of  her  head  which  indicated  finality. 

"  Then  I  may  as  well  confess  the  truth,  and  say 
that  I  am  exceedingly  happy.  You  know  that  there 
is  one  word  in  the  English  language  which  has  no 
exact  equivalent  in  the  French,  and  which  is  —  with 
the  exception  of  '  Mother  '  —  to  us  the  most  beauti- 
ful of  all  in  meaning.  That  is  the  word,  '  home/ 
which  signifies  so  much  more  than  your  '  maison ' 
—  house,  or  '  foyer '  —  fireside.  There  is  the 
thought  of  a  place  of  safe  retreat  from  the  cold 
winds  of  the  world,  of  the  loving  family  gathered 
together  there,  and  the  spirit  which  pervades  the 
whole  and  makes  it  the  most  desirable  place  on 
earth,  all  combined  in  that  simple  word.  By  no 
means  is  every  house  a  '  home,'  in  this  fullest  sense, 
but  I  know  that  this  one  is.  So,  you  see,  I  am 
fortunate,  for  I  have  found  my  way  into  a  real 
'  home.'  " 

"  'Ome."  Joan  repeated  the  English  word  softly, 
and  to  Daniel  it  seemed  as  though  she  imparted 
to  it  an  even  deeper  meaning  than  he  had  himself 


160   THE  MAID  OF  MIRABELLE 

ascribed.  "  Yes,  it  is  a  pretty  word,  and  you  make 
it  tell  a  pleasant  story.  Monsieur  is  a  poet,  I  think." 

"I?  A  poet?  No,  indeed.  Just  plain  man," 
smiled  Daniel. 

"  Ah,  but  the  English  is  so  difficult ;  one  of  your 
words  has  so  many  ideas  in  it,  and  they  are  all  so 
hard  to  pronounce.  Why  do  you  not  speak  the 
words  as  they  are  spelled,  the  way  we  do,  Mon- 
sieur?" 

"  You  are  not  the  first  to  ask  me  that  question, 
Mile.  Joan,  and  I  wonder  if  I  can  open  your  eyes 
in  surprise,  as  I  haveHhe  others.  It  is  true  that  we 
do  not  always  pronounce  as  we  spell,  though  I 
think  that  we  generally  do,  but  do  you,  Mademoi- 
selle?" 

"  But  certainly." 

"  What  are  your  mother  and  sister  doing  ?  "  He 
drew  a  pencil  from  his  pocket,  wrote  the  answer 
to  his  question,  in  French,  "  Elles  travaillent,  n'est- 
ce  pas?  "  and  passed  it  to  the  wondering  girl. 

"El  traveye,  nes  pa?"  she  read  phonetically. 
"  Yes,  but  ...  " 

Smiling,  Daniel  proceeded  to  draw  a  line  through 
each  of  the  eleven  letters  which  had  not  figured  in 
her  pronunciation,  and  Joan's  cheeks  slowly 
dimpled  into  a  responsive  smile.  "  Ah,  you  have 
trapped  me  well,  Monsieur.  I  never  thought  of  it 


THE  "MORROW"  161 

before,  but  there  are  many  letters  which  we  do  not 
pronounce  at  all  in  certain  places.  Now  I  can  see 
why  it  is  that  strangers  speak  so  funnily  our  lan- 
guage." 

"If  you  really  want  to  learn  English,  I  shall  be 
only  too  delighted  to  help  you  —  and  sister  Suzette, 
also  —  on  the  evenings  when  I  am  at  home,  and, 
after  you  have  made  a  little  start,  you  will  find  that 
it  is  really  very  easy.  Our  constructions  are  much 
simpler  than  yours,  we  are  not  bothered  with  the  dif- 
ferent genders,  and  our  verbs  get  along  without 
terminations,  with  one  exception  which  is  easy  to 
remember.  Besides,  although  there  are  many  more 
words  in  English  than  in  French,  nearly  three  thou- 
sand, which  come  originally  from  the  Latin,  are 
practically  the  same  in  both  languages,  except  for 
the  pronunciation.  But  you  must  help  me  with  my 
French,  in  exchange." 

"  Gladly,  Monsieur.  Although  you  already  speak 
our  beautiful  tongue  much  more  fluently  than  most 
foreigners.  Oh,  it  will  be  great  fun !  " 

With  her  eyes  sparkling,  and  red  lips  parted  she 
momentarily  leaned  over  the  table  close  to  him. 
Her  shoulder  barely  touched  his,  but  he  felt  as 
though  there  had  been  established  an  instantaneous 
magnetic  contact,  which  thrilled  him  to  the  finger- 
tips, amazed,  delighted  and  frightened  him. 


"  This  won't  do  at  all,"  he  said  to  himself.  "  If 
I'm  really  a  fool,  it  is  a  good  thing  to  find  it  out  in 
time,  and  fight  against  my  folly."  With  the  thought 
came  an  inspired  solution  —  or  so  it  seemed  to 
Daniel  at  the  moment. 

"  Good,  it  is  agreed.  And  I'll  begin  right  now  by 
teaching  you  another  word  that  —  in  the  sense  in 
which  I  mean  to  use  it  —  has  no  counterpart  in 
French,  I'm  told." 

"  And  that  word  is  ...'?" 

"  '  Pals.'  What  you  and  I  are  going  to  be,  I 
hope.  It  means  about  the  same  as  '  comrades,'  but 
with  perhaps  a  shade  more  of  the  idea  of  frank  and 
friendly  intimacy  in  it.  I  have  been  told  that,  in 
France,  it  is  not  thought  possible  for  a  man  and  a 
girl  to  ...  to  ..."  his  explanation  began  to 
become  confused  and  embarrassed,  "...  to  be 
like  that  —  a  sort  of  brother  and  sister  —  without 
playing  the  part  of  ...  of  ...  lovers.  But  in 
America  it  is  quite  the  usual  thing,  and  perhaps  that 
is  why  ...  is  why  .  .  .  ' 

He  stopped  altogether,  and  Joan,  both  laughing 
and  blushing,  answered,  "  I  think  I  know  what  you 
mean,  Monsieur.  And  that  is  why  the  girls  in  Amer- 
ica do  not  always  have  to  be  chaperoned,  and  can 
have  so  much  better  times  than  we  in  France.  Yes, 


THE   "MORROW  163 

I  will  like  that.  Listen  while  I  say  it.  We  are 
'  pals,'  now.  Is  that  right  ?  " 

"  Exactly  right,  and  we  must  shake  hands  on  it, 
as  they  say  at  home."  She  gave  his  hand  a  warm, 
friendly  pressure,  which  set  his  blood  to  leaping 
again,  and  he  rather  hastily  withdrew  it  from  her 
clasp. 

"  Ah,  but  you  are  amusing,  Monsieur.  I  think 
that  you  are  as  bashful  as  a  girl.  Still,  I  like  thee," 
she  added,  unconsciously  dropping  into  the  language 
of  intimate  friendship. 

"  Good,  then  I  am  fortunate  in  a  thousand  ways." 

"  It  is  we  who  are  fortunate,  Monsieur,"  inter- 
rupted Madame  le  Jeune,  who  had  been  listening  to 
the  conversation,  with  amusement  and  perplexity  in- 
termingled. "  It  is  pleasant  again  to  have  a  youth 
in  our  family  circle  —  our  '  'ome.' '  She  repeated 
the  English  word  diffidently,  and  Daniel  saw  the 
shadow  of  a  great  grief  pass,  like  a  fleeting  cloud, 
across  her  face.  He  understood  its  meaning,  and 
was  silent. 

After  a  moment,  he  addressed  her.  "  Then,  as 
Mile.  Joan  has  said,  it  is  settled,  but  you  must,  of 
course,  permit  me  to  pay  you  for  .  .  .  ' 

"  But  no.  No,  no,"  chorused  the  other  three, 
Madame,  Joan  and  Suzette.  "  A  friend  of  our 
Henri  .  .  " 


"  Thank  you,  I  appreciate  your  kindness,  but 
truly  this  time  I  could  not  accept.  We  are  sup- 
posed to  pay  our  way  always,  you  see,  and  the 
Society  to  which  I  belong  settles  all  necessary  ac- 
counts." 

"  Ah,  in  that  case,  and  if  Monsieur  insists  ..." 
There  was  another  whispered  conference,  and  then 
Madame  inquired,  hesitatingly,  "  Would  Monsieur 
think  five  francs  too  much  for  the  room  ?  " 

"  Five  francs  a  day  ?  "  He  had  been  moving 
from  place  to  place  for  so  long  that  he  had  for- 
gotten how  to  think  in  terms  of  a  domicile,  and  the 
figure  startled  him  a  little. 

"  A  day  ?  No,  no,  for  the  week,  Monsieur,  and 
the  grandmother  shall  do  your  laundry  with  our 
own."  It  was  Joan  who  answered  this  time,  and 
Daniel  could  barely  keep  from  smiling  at  the  ex- 
pression of  distress  on  her  countenance.  And,  as 
he  mentally  translated  the  sum  into  American  cur- 
rency, he  found  himself  wishing  that  every  homesick 
and  embittered  doughboy  who  had  ever  declared 
that  France  was  a  nation  of  robbers  might  have  been 
present  at  that  moment;  whereupon  he  actually  did 
smile,  for  he  knew  how  few  of  the  A.  E.  F.  ha.d  ever 
been  granted  the  opportunity  to  learn  the  true  heart 
of  France,  and  his  imagination  assembled  an  au- 
dience of  some  two  million  men  to  their  simple 


THE  "MORROW  165 

transaction.  "  Five  francs."  At  the  existing  rate 
of  exchange  that  was  well  under  one  dollar  a  week, 
for  such  a  room  and  such  a  bed,  for  the  warmth  of 
a  fire  and  the  more  precious  warmth  of  friendship ! 

"  It  is  far  too  little,  Madame  —  it  is  nothing.  Of 
course  you  must  allow  me  to  pay  more  than  that." 

"  Not  a  single  sou,  Monsieur.  All  that  I  might 
ask  is,  that  if  Monsieur  goes  away  from  time  to  time, 
as  he  has  said  would  be  the  case,  and  on  his  trips 
eats  with  the  soldiers,  or  in  cafes,  he  permit  us  to 
purchase  the  sugar  that  is  allowed  to  him  and  which 
he  does  not  use."  It  was  the  frugal  French  house- 
wife who  spoke  now.  "  Indeed,  Monsieur,  I  should 
be  happy  to  take  charge  of  securing  your  allotment 
for  you,  after  you  have  obtained  the  card." 

"  Most  certainly,  if  you  will  agree  to  consider  it 
my  small  donation  to  the  family,  which  has  made 
me  a  part  of  itself,"  replied  Daniel,  and  he  thought 
of  many  other  gifts  of  welcome  provender  which 
he  might  make  if  ever  his  trips  took  him  to  a  town 
where  was  located  an  American  army  commissary. 
:  "  Then  truly  is  it  settled.  Come,  Joan,  get  thy 
shawl.  If  thou  dost  not  hasten  the  Mayor  will  have 
left  his  bureau.  He  is  also  the  principal  of  the 
village  school,  and  himself  teaches  the  older  boys 
who  are  too  unruly  for  the  mesdemoiselles,  his 
daughters,"  she  added,  in  explanation  to  Daniel. 


166    THE  MAID  OF  MIRABELLE 

The  man,  in  his  heavy  storm  boots,  and  the  girl, 
in  her  sabots,  were  soon  clumping  together  down  the 
hillside  toward  a  group  of  children,  who  were  lag- 
gardly  moving  in  the  direction  of  school  and  filling 
the  last  precious  moments  of  freedom  with  human 
sleighing  races,  for  the  purpose  of  which  one  of  a 
pair  played  the  part  of  steed  and  the  other  that  of 
driver  and  equipage  combined  by  squatting  upon 
his,  or  her,  wooden-shod  heels.  The  crisp  air  was 
filled  wTith  merry  cries  and  childish  laughter. 

The  voice  of  one,  calling,  "  Look,  an  American !  " 
put  an  abrupt  end  to  the  game,  and  the  participants 
clustered  together  in  a  group  by  the  roadside,  half 
shy,  half  eager,  but  all  curious. 

"  There  are  the  two  small  sisters  of  thy  friend. 
Monsieur  Jean,"  exclaimed  Joan,  as  she  pointed  out 
two  fascinatingly  pretty  children,  slender  and  grace- 
ful, with  wavy  hair  so  black  as  to  suggest  a  sheen  of 
blue  in  the  sunlight,  and  big  eyes,  nearly  as  dark. 
"  Yes,  and  there  is  my  little  Pierre,  the  rascal,  hiding 
behind  Marie.  Good-morning,  children,"  she  called 
aloud. 

"  Good-morning.  Joan,"  came  the  response  in 
chorus,  and  then  Georgette,  looking  up  at  Daniel 
from  under  her  dark  lashes,  and  with  a  mischievous 
smile  dimpling  her  rosy  cheeks,  called  in  English, 
"  Good-bye." 


THE  "  MORROW  '  167 

"  All  of  the  youngsters  in  France  know  that  ex- 
pression, I  guess,  and  use  it  regardless  of  appro- 
priateness," chuckled  the  man,  as  he,  in  French, 
returned  the  intended  greeting. 

"  Marie,  Georgette  and  little  Pierre,  come  hither. 
You  must  bid  good-morning  properly  to  the  Amer- 
ican Monsieur,  who  is  a  friend  of  your  brother  Jean, 
and  helped  to  take  care  of  him  when  he  was  the  last 
time  wounded,"  announced  his  companion. 

.The  two  girls  approached  shyly,  and  each  placed 
a  small  hand  in  Daniel's  outstretched  ones ;  but  the 
boy  showed  no  embarrassment.  Rather,  he  leaned 
confidently  against  the  man's  legs,  tilted  his  chubby, 
soiled  face  upward,  and,  with  a  cherubic  smile,  in- 
quired ingratiatingly,  "  Chew'n  gum?" 

"  No  '  chew'n  gum  '  this  morning,  my  little  one. 
I'm  sorry." 

The  light  of  expectancy  faded  from  the  small 
countenance,  and  the  cherubic  lips  replied,  "  Damn." 

Daniel's  expression  of  shocked  amusement  at  the 
expletive,  coming  from  such  a  source,  must  have 
conveyed  something  of  the  unintelligible  word's 
meaning  to  Joan,  for  she  apologized,  "  He's  only  a 
baby,  Monsieur,  and  perhaps  thy  countrymen  who 
were  here  last  spring  taught  him  to  say  some 
naughty  words,  is  it  not  so?  " 


168    THE  MAID  OF  MIRABELLE 

"  It  certainly  is.  You  had  better  tell  him  to  elim- 
inate that  particular  word  from  his  English  vocab- 
ulary." 

"  Ah  well,  soldiers  will  be  soldiers  —  " 

"  *  Full  of  strange  oaths,'  "  quoted  Daniel  men- 
tally. 

"  —  and  he  is  so  comical  that  they  all  spoiled 
him,  by  playing  with  him  constantly,  and  giving 
him  many  bonbons  and  other  things.  We  love  the 
children  dearly,  but  I  think  that  the  Americans  make 
more  of  them,  than  do  the  French." 

"  Listen,  Pierre.  It  is  not  a  nice  English  word 
which  thou  hast  used,  but  if  thou  wilt  promise  me 
not  to  say  it  again,  I  will  surely  give  thee  some  bon- 
bons the  next  time  that  I  see  thee,  for  I  have  a  few 
in  my  bag,"  promised  Daniel. 

"  Good.  Then  I  will  not  say  '  Damn '  again, 
ever,  if  I  may  have  some  bonbons." 

"  Hark,  the  bell  is  ringing.  We  must  all  make 
haste !  "  Joan  exclaimed. 

"  Quick,  then.  On  my  back,  Pierre,"  Daniel  cried, 
and  with  the  boy  clinging  tightly  to  his  neck,  and 
a  shrieking  girl  dragging  at  each  hand,  he  headed 
the  troop  toward  the  three  storied  building  which 
Joan  indicated  as  schoolhouse,  Mayor's  office  and 
family  dwelling  combined. 

Their  errand  completed,  and  with  the  precious 


THE  "MORROW"  169 

carte  d' alimentation  in  Daniel's  pocket,  the  two 
started  to  retrace  their  path,  but  the  girl  had  an 
errand  to  perform  in  the  near-by  basement  shop,  and, 
on  reaching  it,  excused  herself  for  a  moment.  Left 
alone,  the  American  stood  idly  watching  the  stray 
hens  which  were  industriously  scratching  provender 
through  the  snow,  and  now  and  then  his  wandering 
eyes  caught  glimpses  of  gray-gowned  Sisters,  with 
stiff  white  headdresses,  which  half  concealed  their 
placid  faces,  as  they  passed  and  repassed  the  win- 
dows within  the  severely  plain  convent,  beside  the 
church. 

His  attention  was  shortly  attracted  to  a  more 
stirring  sight,  however,  for  around  the  corner  swung 
the  head  of  a  battalion  of  French  infantry,  in  full 
field  equipment,  but  marching  without  music,  or 
drums.  Even  now  that  peace  had  come,  the  appear- 
ance of  armed  men  en  route  still  thrilled  him,  and 
he  eagerly  studied  the  brown,  bearded  or  mustached 
faces  that  filed  by  him  with  scarcely  a  glance. 
Around  the  left  shoulder  of  each  was  looped  the 
fourragere  of  twisted  red  cord,  which  proclaimed 
that  the  regiment  to  which  it  belonged  had  been 
cited  to  wear  the  color  of  the  Legion  of  Honor,  for 
repeated  deeds  of  exceptional  bravery,  and  the 
breasts  of  many  of  the  individuals  were  adorned 
with  the  bars  of  the  Croix  de  Guerre  and  the  Me- 


170    THE  MAID  OF  MIRABELLE 

daille  Militaire.  Three  months  had  passed  since  the 
fighting  ceased,  but  these  stern-visaged  men,  who 
had  faced  four  years  of  horror  at  the  Marne,  the 
Aisne,  in  Belgium,  Verdun  and  Chateau  Thierry, 
perhaps,  still  bore  the  ineffaceable  lines  of  suffer- 
ing and  indomitable  resolve,  around  their  lips  and 
eyes. 

The  command  "  Halt "  was  passed  down  the  col- 
umn of  fours,  and  the  poilus  instantly  relaxed, 
dropped  their  rifle  butts  to  the  snow,  hitched  up  their 
packs,  and  relighted  the  inevitable  cigarettes.  Dan- 
iel walked  a  few  paces  down  the  line,  until  he  was 
arrested  by  Joan's  voice,  calling,  "  I  am  now  ready, 
Monsieur  Steele." 

"  So?  "  spoke  a  deep  voice  just  behind  him,  and 
he  turned  to  recognize  the  sentry  with  whom  he  had 
conversed  the  previous  night.  "  I  see  that  Monsieur 
succeeded  in  finding  the  house  of  the  family  which 
he  sought.  Good.  Perhaps  now  if  /  return  in  the 
week's  time,  he  will  tell  me  where  dwell  the  le 
Jeunes,  for  I  observe  that  there  are  some  pretty 
daughters  there  —  or  at  least  one." 

"  And  do  you  then  expect  to  return  so  soon  ?  It 
appears  to  me  as  though  you  were  departing  alto- 
gether." 

"  Yes,  it  is  so.  We  go  into  Germany  to  take  our 
place  in  the  army  of  occupation.  The  Boche  '  Gret- 


THE  "MORROW"  171 

chens  '  will  not  be  as  pretty  as  yonder  Mademoiselle, 
I'm  afraid." 

"  Too  bad.  But  if  you  are  leaving  Mirabelle  I 
should  now  have  no  trouble  in  finding  a  chamber 
here,  if  it  were  necessary." 

'  There  will  be  plenty  of  room  for  a  day  or  two, 
perhaps,  but  other  troops  will  replace  us,  without 
doubt.  The  barracks  are  well  built,  and  the  position 
strategic,  -if  the  enemy  plays  false." 

"Attention!" 

"Au  revoir,  Monsieur,  and  felicitations,  for  the 
pretty  mademoiselle  awaits  you." 

"  Au  revoir,  and  a  pleasant  journey." 

"  Forward  march !  "  The  column  moved  on,  and 
Daniel  rejoined  the  waiting  Joan.  As  they  turned 
the  corner  towards  home,  they  came  suddenly  upon 
old  Barbette,  in  the  act  of  sweeping  a  path  through 
the  snow  from  her  little  cabin  to  the  road,  and  he 
saw  on  the  platform  a  pale,  pitiably  thin  child, 
with  deeply  shadowed  eyes  and  drooping  lips  — 
the  countenance  of  which  he  had  caught  a  fleet- 
ing glimpse  through  the  window-pane  the  eve- 
ning before.  One  startled  look  at  him,  and  she 
scurried  indoors  like  a  frightened  hare  to  its  bur- 
row. 

The  old  woman  shrieked  a  malediction  after  her, 
and  then,  with  a  twisted  smile  which  revealed  a  few 


172    THE  MAID  OF  MIRABELLE 

odd,  discolored  teeth,  turned  to  Daniel,  and  said, 
"  Ah,  Monsieur,  she  runs  thus  from  every  stranger, 
for  to  her  they  are  all  Boche." 

"  And  she  is  then  especially  afraid  of  the 
Germans  ?  " 

"  Aye,  and  with  good  cause,  but  I  will  not  think 
on  those  things  now.  'Tis  better  not."  The  thin 
lips  closed  grimly. 

"  I  will  tell  thee  the  story  some  day,  perhaps," 
whispered  Joan,  with  her  lips  close  to  his  ear. 

"  And  so  the  American  stays  in  Mirabelle,  with 
the  le  Jeune  family  and  Mademoiselle  Joan,  eh? 
Well,  old  Barbette  knew  that  it  would  be  so,  she 
knew." 

"How  did  you  know?  I  did  not  myself,  until  a 
little  while  ago,"  demanded  Daniel,  with  curiosity 
and  growing  exasperation  both  evident  in  his  voice. 
But  the  hag  merely  shook  her  head,  and  began  to 
mutter,  and  wield  her  broom  of  twigs  furiously. 
With  a  "  Good-morning,  Madame,"  in  parting,  the 
pair  started  to  move  on. 

It  was  still  sufficiently  early  so  that  the  morning 
sun  was  only  a  little  above  the  rim  of  eastern  hills, 
and  its  bright,  slanting  rays  cast  clean-cut  patches 
of  shade  on  the  white  ground.  As  Daniel  faced 
the  west  to  mount  the  hillside,  old  Barbette's  cack- 
ling laugh  sounded  behind  him,  and  he  heard  her 


THE  " MORROW'  173 

call,  "  Be  careful,  Monsieur.  You  are  stepping  to- 
wards it." 

"  Towards  what  ?  "  he  demanded  sharply. 

"  Your  shadow,  Monsieur,"  was  the  mocking 
reply. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

CONVERGING    PATHS 

ONCE  more  it  was  eventide,  and  once  more  Dan- 
iel was  headed  toward  Mirabelle,  but  with  antici- 
pations how  different  from  those  which  had  been  his 
when  he  had  first  approached  the  village.  Then,  he 
had  been  weary,  cold,  and  uncertain  of  what  greet- 
ing awaited  him  there;  now,  he  looked  confidently 
forward  to  a  friendly  welcome  in  a  spot  which  had 
already  assumed  the  name  of  "  home  "  in  all  his 
thoughts.  Four  days  had  passed  since  he  left  it, 
four  busy  days  in  which  he  had  visited  by  rail,  by 
foot,  or  motor  trucks  encountered  by  chance,  most 
of  his  new  territory.  Somehow,  the  blackened  ruins 
and  bare  walls,  which  stood  so  naked  and  deserted 
amid  the  bleak  winter  landscape,  had  touched  his 
heart  even  more  poignantly  than  before,  as  he 
viewed  the  frozen  desolations,  and  mentally  com- 
pared what  he  beheld,  with  his  mind  picture  of  what 
they  once  had  been  —  contented,  peaceful  places, 
like  Mirabelle. 

174 


CONVERGING  PATHS          175 

Toward  that  hamlet,  whose  quaint  charm  had  al- 
ready captivated  him,  still  almost  a  stranger  to  it, 
his  thoughts  had  reverted  often  during  the  evenings 
which  he  had  passed  in  the  chilly,  overcrowded  inn 
of  some  partly  razed  town,  or  another.  And  he  had 
never  sought  his  uncomfortable  bed  without  think- 
ing covetously  of  the  wonderful  one  which  awaited 
him  there  —  warmed  by  a  stone  jug  placed  at  its 
foot  by  mother  le  Jeune,  its  thick  covers  turned 
down  by  the  hand  of  Joan,  and  close  beside  it,  a 
friendly  fire  kindled  by  his  host. 

The  strong  hold  which  his  new  friendship  had 
taken  upon  his  heart,  found  expression  in  a  long 
letter  that  he  wrote  to  Faith  at  this  time.  In  it  he 
described  in  detail  his  arrival  at  Mirabelle,  even  to 
quoting  the  first,  and  pleasant,  part  of  old  Bar- 
bette's prophecy.  He  expatiated  at  length  upon  the 
kindness  of  the  le  Jeune  family  to  him,  but,  when  he 
came  to  write  of  them  individually,  he  caught  him- 
self being  swayed  by  an  odd  temptation  to  make 
only  a  passing  mention  of  the  girl  Joan.  Angry  at 
himself,  he  finally  described  her  to  a  greater  degree 
than  was  in  the  least  necessary.  He  told  of  her 
loveliness  of  face,  her  sweetness  and  natural  charm, 
and  then  —  manlike,  and  afraid  that  he  had  said  too 
much  —  went  as  far  out  of  his  way  in  the  other 
direction,  to  assure  the  one  who  owned  his  allegiance 


176   THE  MAID  OF  MIRABELLE 

that  she  need  have  no  fear  that  this,  or  any  other 
woman,  no  matter  how  fascinating,  could  have  any 
possible  appeal  to  one  who  had  known,  and  loved, 
and  been  loved  by  her.  It's  said  that  woman's  name 
is  inconsistency,  with  the  inference  that  the  male  is 
a  consistent  creature,  but  if  he  is,  the  ordinary  one 
is  consistently  absurd  —  where  women  are  con- 
cerned. And  when  this  epistle  reached  Faith,  a 
month  later,  the  ardent  protestations  thrilled  her; 
and  if  her  womanly  intuition  read  aught  between  the 
lines  which  troubled  her,  her  reply  did  not  disclose 
the  fact,  even  by  inference,  for  she  did  not  find  it 
necessary  to  reaffirm  her  steadfast  trust  in  him. 
Rather,  she  wrote  sweetly  of  her  own  happiness  in 
the  fact  that  he  was  so  happy  in  his  new  home,  and 
ended  by  asking  him  to  give  her  love  to  Joan.  But 
much  water  had  flowed  under  the  bridge  before 
Daniel  received  that  letter. 

On  the  evening  of  this  fourth  day  Daniel  was 
once  more  approaching  Mirabelle,  this  time  by  the 
road  that  led  from  the  little  railway  station  of  the 
village  on  the  further  side  of  the  Moselle.  The 
hamlet,  which  straggled  up  the  hillside  from  the 
river's  edge  in  front  of  him,  was  silhouetted  against 
a  glowing  sunset  background,  and  looked  more  like 
a  painting  than  a  real  place,  with  its  picturesque 
skyline  of  deep  red  roofs,  the  rich  blues  and  violets 


CONVERGING  PATHS         177 

of  the  shadows  on  its  clustered  walls,  and  with 
here  and  there  a  touch  of  pink  in  spots  where  snow 
reflected  the  warm  light.  To  add  a  bit  of  life  to  the 
scene,  the  beautiful  Moselle  wound  through  the 
nearer  snow-clad  field,  its  rippling  waters,  and  tiny 
rapids,  many-colored.  The  picture  bred  a  great  con- 
tentment within  the  man. 

As  he  exchanged  the  still-sunlit  plain  for  the 
heavy  shadows  within  the  village,  and  turned  into 
the  main  street,  he  saw  before  him  in  the  distance, 
winding  down  the  road  which  curved  over  the 
nearer  hills,  a  thin  dark  line  which,  as  he  watched, 
resolved  itself  into  a  rapidly  approaching  column  of 
horses,  guns  and  wagons.  The  cavalcade  came  on 
at  so  fast  a  trot,  that  before  Daniel  had  reached  his 
turning  point,  the  leaders  were  almost  upon  him. 
He  saw  that  the  foremost  team  of  horses,  urged 
forward  by  the  lumbering  gun  that  bounded  and 
rattled  at  their  heels,  was  practically  out  of  control, 
and  plunging  badly.  The  rider  of  the  near  horse, 
and  the  driver  on  the  seat  of  the  limber,  were  mak- 
ing desperate  efforts  to  slow  them  down,  and  swing 
them  around  the  right  angle  turn.  But  their  shouts 
and  sawing  on  the  bits  only  excited  the  sweating, 
plunging  animals  the  more.  Not  knowing  what 
might  happen,  and  decidedly  uneasy  on  his  own 
account  —  for  he  was  caught  between  a  row  of 


178    THE  MAID  OF  MIRABELLE 

buildings  on  either  side  —  Daniel  made  haste  to 
press  himself  close  against  one  of  the  walls,  and 
then,  for  the  first  time,  realized  that  he  was  not 
alone  there. 

Two  other  figures  were  huddled  in  the  deep 
shadows.  A  single  glance  enabled  him  to  recog- 
nize in  one  the  crooked  form  of  old  Barbette,  and 
he  assumed  that  the  other  was  the  strange  child. 
But  he  had  time  for  one  look  only.  Then  he  saw 
the  rider  lean  over,  and  smash  his  clinched  fist 
viciously  into  the  nostrils  of  the  off  horse;  saw  a 
mounted  officer,  with  the  expression  of  a  devil  on 
his  face,  spur  up  beside  the  offender  and  seize  his 
wrist  in  a  passionate  grip;  saw  the  newcomer's 
steed  rear  and  pivot  under  the  check-rein;  and  saw 
its  flank  strike  the  cowering  child,  and  send  her 
headlong  to  the  ground. 

The  tragic  action  began  and  ended  almost  simul- 
taneously, and  Daniel  viewed  it  as  something  oc- 
curring in  a  nightmare,  the  gloomy  shadows  on  one 
side,  and  the  unnatural  light  of  dying  day  on  the 
other,  intensifying  the  effect.  His  mind  was  in 
action,  while  his  body  seemed  to  be  bound  to  the 
wall  against  which  he  had  pressed  himself.  Then 
his  nerves  and  muscles  responded  to  the  call  of  his 
brain,  and  he  was  also  in  the  midst  of  the  group 
that  had  become  a  melee.  He  found  himself  at 


CONVERGING  PATHS          179 

one  time  trying  to  lift  the  silent  child  from  the  snow, 
restrain  old  Barbette,  who  was  making  matters 
worse  by  shrieking  maledictions  at  the  officer  and 
beating  both  him  and  his  mount  with  her  bony 
fists,  and  prevent  the  horse  from  rearing  again  and 
injuring  them  all. 

The  column  had  closed  up  behind  them,  shouting 
drivers  were  endeavoring  to  calm  their  own  horses, 
which  had  become  infected  with  the  spirit  of  panic, 
and  others  had  jumped  from  the  gun  carriages, 
and  were  running  up  to  assist.  For  an  instant, 
pandemonium  was  loose  in  the  dark  and  narrow 
street.  Then  Daniel  somehow  succeeded  in  backing 
free  with  his  burden,  and  in  pulling  after  him  the 
old  woman,  whose  straggly  hair  had  fallen  over  her 
face  and  whose  lip  was  bleeding,  where  she  herself 
had  bitten  it.  There  was  the  look  of  one  of  the 
Furies  on  her  face. 

But  the  man  was  more  concerned  over  the  child, 
who  lay  rigid  in  his  arms,  her  eyes  closed,  and  the 
blood  seeping  from  a  cut  on  her  forehead,  that 
had  been  made,  doubtless,  by  the  rough  wall  against 
which  she  had  struck  in  falling. 

For  an  instant  he  believed  that  she  was  dead. 
Then  tremors  began  to  pass  through  her  wasted 
body,  and  her  breath  to  come  in  convulsive,  sound- 
less sobs.  With  a  sense  of  immense  relief,  he  sur- 


180   THE  MAID  OF  MIRABELLE 

rendered  her  into  Barbette's  skinny  arms,  and  the 
old  hag  began  to  rock  and  croon  over  her  with  an 
unsuspected  tenderness.  Then  the  officer,  who  had 
dismounted  and  left  his  horse  in  charge  of  a  soldier, 
joined  them. 

"  God,  I  was  so  angry  at  that driver  that  I 

didn't  see  the  little  one  at  all,  Madame  —  I  had  eyes 
only  for  that  fool.  I  am  desolate,  and  hope  that  she 
is  not  hurt.  Here,  please  take  this."  He  drew 
from  his  pocket  a  handful  of  small  silver  coins  and 
held  them  out  to  her,  but  old  Barbette  freed  one 
arm,  and  struck  the  offering  so  sharp  a  blow  that 
the  money  flew  in  every  direction,  and  she  began  to 
shriek  at  him  again. 

He  laughed  at  her  foul  abuse,  and  turned  to  Dan- 
iel, who  was  now  leaning  against  the  wall,  gin- 
gerly nursing  one  arm,  which  had  been  severely 
bruised  during  the  affair.  "  And  you,  Monsieur, 
if  you  had  not  quickly  and  courageously  inter- 
posed your  own  strong  body,  worse  might  have 
happened,  so  I  thank  you.  You  are  not  injured,  I 
trust?" 

From  the  shadows  which  concealed  his  face,  Dan- 
iel answered,  "  No,  I  am  not  hurt,  and  you  have  no 
occasion  to  thank  me.  I  am  only  too  glad  that  I 
was  present.  But  let  this  teach  you  a  lesson,  my 
lieutenant,  that  the  innocent  are  often  made  to  suf- 


CONVERGING  PATHS         181 

fer  with  the  guilty,  when  a  man  loses  his  temper  in 
the  way  you  have  just  done." 

"  Mon  Dieu,  is  it  then  my  American,  Monsieur 
Steele?  But  I  am  glad  to  see  you,  even  if  you  read 
me  a  moral  lecture  at  the  very  moment  of  our  meet- 
ing." He  sprang  forward,  and  clasped  Daniel's 
hand  heartily.  "  I  was  at  fault ;  yes,  I  admit  it,  but 
I  have  a  hasty  temper,  and  when  it  is  aroused  I  see 
everything  red.  I  am  sorry  for  what  happened,  but 
not  that  I  was  angry  —  indeed,  I  rejoice  in  the 
knowledge  that  I  possess  a  temper  for  use  when  the 
occasion  requires,  whereas  I  wager  that  you,  my 
mild-mannered  friend,  do  not  know  whether  you 
have  one,  or  not." 

"  Perhaps  I  would  prefer  to  be  wanting  in  that 
regard,  Monsieur.  You  forget  that  my  sect  tries 
to  follow  the  commandment  of  the  Master,  in  all 
respects,  and  forgiveness  is  the  cardinal  Christian 
virtue." 

"  Without  doubt ;  but,  if  I  remember  my  Bible 
correctly,  even  He,  himself,  once  whipped  the 
money  changers  from  the  temple." 

"  Their  offense  was  not  against  Him  ..."  be- 
gan Daniel. 

"  Nor  was  this  fool's  offense  against  me,"  an- 
swered Villier,  triumphantly.  "Of  course  I  am 
sorry  for  the  girl  —  although  the  old  woman  amuses 


182   THE  MAID  OF  MIRABELLE 

me  —  but  I  assure  you  that  if  I  should  to-morrow 
see  another  brute  strike  a  horse,  which  I  worship, 
I  should  undoubtedly  ride  down  another  child, 
if  it  happened  to  stand  between  me  and  the  object  of 
my  anger.  This  man  shall  be  well  punished,  al- 
though perhaps  you  would  like  to  beg  that  clemency 
be  shown  him,  Monsieur,"  he  finished,  with  a  faint 
tinge  of  sarcasm  in  his  words. 

"  A  man  who  sins  must  suffer,  truly,  but  I  might 
ask  you  to  remember  that  his  temper  was  responsible 
for  what  he  did,  and  he  was  sorely  tried." 

At  this  serious  statement  the  lieutenant  burst  into 
a  hearty  laugh,  and  he  clapped  Daniel  on  the 
shoulder.  "  It  is  worse  than  hopeless  to  argue  with 
you,  my  friend,  but  I'll  never  get  over  the  delight 
of  doing  it,  nevertheless.  Come,  tell  me  what  you 
are  doing  here,  of  all  places.  You  are  the  last 
person  on  earth  whom  I  should  have  expected 
to  meet  in  this  God-forsaken  hole,  where  we  are 
doomed  to  spend  the  rest  of  the  winter  in  quarters 
—  no  amusement,  no  society,  no  women  except 
the  dull  village  girls.  Bon  Dleu,  but  I  shall  die  of 
ennui." 

"  Possibly  that  is  how  Mirabelle  appeals  to  you, 
Monsieur,"  responded  Daniel,  suddenly  transformed 
into  a  champion  of  the  spot  which  had  exercised  so 
strong  an  appeal  on  him.  "  To  me  it  seems  like  a 


CONVERGING  PATHS         183 

delightful  haven,  after  the  places  in  which  I  have 
been  living." 

"  So  it's  like  that?  And  do  you  then  mean  that 
you,  too,  are  staying  here  ?  What  luck !  The  Fates 
are  kinder  to  me  than  I  thought,  since  I  shall  have 
you  to  amuse  me.  And,  inasmuch  as  you  take 
offense  so  strongly  at  my  frank  characterization  of 
Mirabelle,  it  must  be  that  you  have  discovered  here 
some  attraction  which  is  hidden  from  the  casual 
view  —  some  jewel,  worth  another's  seeking,  is  it 
not  so  ?  Ah,  it  is ;  I  read  the  answer  in  your  face, 
which  was  not  made  for  dissembling.  *  Cherchez  la 
femme'  as  we  Frenchmen  always  say,  in  such  a 
case;  is  it  that  you  have  here  found  the  village 
Mademoiselle,  concerning  whose  appealing  simplic- 
ity I  once  warned  you  ?  Aha,  still  waters.  But  you 
have  my  felicitations." 

Daniel  hesitated.  He  was  disturbed  and  angry, 
both  at  himself  and  the  questioner,  although  he  sus- 
pected that  the  latter  was  merely  baiting  him.  The 
arrival  of  a  young  poilu,  leading  Villier's  horse, 
brought  what  promised  to  be  a  welcome  interven- 
tion. But  the  promise  failed,  for  the  lieutenant  — 
now  in  high  good  humor  again  —  turned  to  the  new 
arrival,  who  had  saluted  both  men,  and  cried,  "  Be- 
hold, Jean,  these  Americans  are  too  rapid  for  us. 
We  come  to  a  village  hoping  to  find  at  least  one 


pretty  Mademoiselle  to  entertain  us,  and  lo,  one  of 
them  is  here  before  us,  and  has,  without  doubt,  al- 
ready selected  the  best  for  himself.  You  remember 
Monsieur  Steele,  do  you  not?" 

"  But  certainly,  my  lieutenant,  we  are  already 
friends.  Did  I  not  say  that  we  would  surely  meet 
again,  Monsieur?  " 

"  You  did,  and  I  am  glad  that  you  have  proved  to 
be  a  true  prophet.  Has  Jean  told  you  that  he  prob- 
ably saved  my  life  in  Verdun?" 

"  I  have  not  told  it,  because  it  is  not  true,  Mon- 
sieur." 

"  Well,  I  am  glad  that  you  are  to  be  here,  and 
I'm  sure  that  you  consider  yourself  fortunate  to  be 
sent  to  Mirabelle,  even  if  Lieutenant  Villier  does 
not." 

"  Ah  yes,  the  dear  God  is  kind  to  me,  for  I  can 
now  see  my  little  sisters  and  brothers,  daily.  And 
then  there  is  yet  another  reason  why  I  am  well  con- 
tent to  be  here." 

"  And  that  is  ...   ?  " 

"Cannot  Monsieur  guess?  You  have  heard  of 
my  comrade's  sister,  Joan;  perhaps  you  have  seen 
her,  if  you  have  been  here  long,  and  .  .  .  ' 

There  was  something  about  the  odd  expression 
which  came  into  the  American's  face,  which  caused 
him  to  pause.  At  the  same  time  old  Barbette  and 


CONVERGING  PATHS         185 

the  child,  who  was  now  able  to  walk  slowly,  slunk 
away,  and  their  departure  gave  Daniel  a  brief 
moment  in  which  to  control  his  features  and  remove 
the  look  of  surprise  from  his  countenance.  He  had 
been  shocked  at  the  unreasonable  feeling  of  sudden 
jealousy  which  had  followed  Jean's  simple  declara- 
tion, and  he  now  forced  himself  to  respond  with  al- 
most boisterous  good  will,  "  So,  the  wind  blows 
that  way?  If  Mile.  Joan  is  a  victim  of  the  same 
contagious  malady,  you  are  indeed  fortunate,  for 
she  is  everything  that  is  fine  and  fair." 

"  You  have  met  her,  then  ?  "  exclaimed  Jean,  his 
face  lighting  up  joyfully. 

"  Met  her  ?  Is  it  not  my  good  fortune  to  have 
found  a  chamber  in  the  house  of  the  kind  le  Jeunes  ? 
And  have  I  not  already  told  her  that  you  and  I  are 
friends?" 

"  Perhaps  she  asked  about  me,  Monsieur? " 
queried  the  poilu  eagerly. 

"  Perhaps  she  has,  who  knows,"  was  Daniel's 
enigmatical  reply. 

"  Truly  ?  Ah,  I  am  glad,  and  glad,  too,  that  I 
shall  be  able  to  see  you  often,  for  we  are  to  occupy 
the  barracks  almost  across  the  street." 

The  lieutenant,  who  had  stepped  aside  to  address 
the  offending  and  chastened  driver,  returned  in  time 
to  hear  the  last  sentence.  "  So  you  are  also  living  on 


the  Rue  du  Mont?  Good.  You  will  be  able  to  dine 
often  at  my  popote,  where  we  shall  renew  our  in- 
numerable discussions,  and  you  can,  at  the  same 
time,  learn  that  Jean,  here,  is  able  to  cook  an  omelet 
as  well  as  he  can  point  a  gun.  In  return,  you  must 
promise  to  introduce  me  to  your  village  belle,  and 
we  shall  then  see  whether  she  prefers  the  Parisian,  or 
the  priest.  Au  revoir,  Monsieur  Steele,  we  arrive 
late,  and  there  is  much  to  be  done  to-night,  but  to- 
morrow you  must  come  and  see  me.  Am  I  not  gen- 
erous ?  I  give  you  one  more  free  night,  in  which  to 
play  your  hand  without  a  rival." 

He  remounted  gracefully,  wheeled,  and  spurred 
away,  followed  by  Jean,  who  ran  to  take  his  place 
on  the  gun  limber,  leaving  Daniel  with  strangely 
mixed  feelings  of  pleasure  and  disquietude.  He 
knew  the  way  of  the  French  officer  of  city  birth,  and 
Villier's  jest  about  the  unknown  girl  contained  the 
possibility  of  a  threat,  and  both  it,  and  the  poilu's 
frank  avowal,  certainly  promised  to  interfere  with 
the  pleasant  comradeship  which  he  had  pictured  as 
growing  up  between  Joan  and  himself. 

With  quite  different  sensations  in  his  heart  than 
those  which  had  been  there  a  few  moments  previous, 
he  turned  up  the  Rite  du  Mont,  beside  the  now 
slowly  moving  column. 

The  sight  of  Barbette's  tiny  cabin  brought  his 


CONVERGING  PATHS         187 

mind  back  to  the  recent  event,  that  had  so  barely 
escaped  a  tragic  ending,  and  he  climbed  to  the  little 
platform,  and  knocked  on  the  door.  It  was  opened 
a  crack  by  the  old  woman,  who  peered  out,  with  a 
look  of  hostility  on  her  aged  face,  but  this  cleared 
when  she  discovered  the  identity  of  the  visitor.  She 
drew  the  door  wide  open,  and  beckoned  for  him  to 
enter.  He  was  forced  to  stoop  low  in  order  to  es- 
cape the  top  of  the  door,  and  even  within  the  room 
was  unable  to  stand  upright.  Every  imaginable 
sort  of  odds  and  ends,  mostly  broken,  cluttered  up 
the  tiny  place,  it  seemed  to  Daniel,  but  he  paid  scant 
attention  to  his  surroundings.  For,  close  to  one 
side,  lying  on  a  rude  cot  made  of  what  had  once 
been  two  chairs,  was  the  strange  and  pitiable  child, 
who  regarded  him  unblinkingly,  through  big  scared 
eyes.  Her  hair,  falling  over  them,  and  the  dark 
blue  shadows  about  them,  made  them  appear  like 
those  of  some  little  wild  thing  cowering  within  a 
thicket. 

Still,  she  did  not  shrink,  this  time,  when  the  man 
crouched  down,  took  one  of  her  frail,  transparent 
hands  in  his,  and  asked  her,  gently,  how  she  felt. 

"  Answer  him,  thou !  "  shrieked  the  old  woman, 
but,  as  the  girl  remained  dumb,  she  continued  more 
mildly  and  with  a  tone  of  apology,  "  You  must 
excuse  her,  Monsieur,  for  she  is  very  timid.  But 


188    THE  MAID  OF  MIRABELLE 

look,  she  fears  you  no  longer.  See?"  The  child 
was  softly  patting  Daniel's  hand.  "  It  is  her  way 
of  thanking  you  for  saving  her  life,  yes,  for  saving 
her  life.  And  now  old  Barbette  has  yet  another 
kindness  to  repay  you  for,  some  day." 

"  She  was  not  seriously  hurt,  mother?  "  he  asked. 

*'  Hurt  ?  No,  she  was  not  hurt,  Oh,  ho-ho,  is 
she  not  the  devil's  child,  and  does  not  the  devil  al- 
ways look  after  his  own?  "  Daniel  was  shocked  at 
her  words  and  mirthless  laugh,  and  the  girl  winced 
visibly.  He  was  moved  to  voice  a  stern  rebuke,  but 
before  he  could  speak,  the  old  woman  had  dropped 
to  her  knees  and  begun  to  fondle  the  girl,  and  mutter 
soothing  endearments. 

"  I  am  so  sorry  for  the  little  one,  Madame.  Won't 
you  take  this,  and  get  something  to  amuse  her  .  .  . 
a  little  poupee  or  perhaps  some  sweets  ?  "  he  asked, 
utterly  at  a  loss  to  understand  the  scene. 

"  No,  Monsieur,  we  cannot  accept  more  of  your 
money,  but  as  soon  as  it  is  fully  dark,  old  Barbette 
will  return  to  the  corner,  and,  on  her  knees,  seek  in 
the  snow  for  the  coins  which  she  struck  from  the 
officer's  hand.  Old  Barbette  cannot  be  bribed,  but 
what  she  finds,  is  hers,  is  it  not  so?  And  he  shall 
pay,  ah  yes,  the  lieutenant  shall  pay  in  anguish  and 
bitterness  of  soul,  and  we  will  laugh  —  the  little  one 
and  I.  Old  Barbette  knows,  she  knows."  Again 


CONVERGING  PATHS          189 

she  fell  a-muttering,  and  was,  perhaps,  unaware 
when  Daniel  rather  hastily  departed. 

He  walked  rapidly  to  his  new  home,  and,  once 
he  was  inside  it,  all  the  disturbing  shadows  of  the 
previous  moments  fled  from  his  mind  before  the 
warmth  and  brightness  of  the  family  welcome. 

But  he  had  much  news  to  relate,  during  the  course 
of  the  simple  meal,  in  which  they  insisted  that  he 
join  them,  and  there  were  many  excited  exclama- 
tions and  a  little  laughter  over  his  story.  To  be 
sure,  the  knowledge  that  the  new  arrivals  were  mem- 
bers of  the  battery  to  which  Henri  had  belonged, 
brought  a  momentary  shade  of  pain,  for  they  could 
not  but  think  of  the  joy  which  would  have  been 
theirs,  to  have  had  him  so  near  them.  Still,  they 
were  able  to  rejoice  in  Jean's  good  fortune,  and 
Joan's  eyes  and  cheeks  were  bright,  as  she  inquired, 
"  And  he  is  well  and  strong  again,  Monsieur  ?  Ah, 
I  am  glad." 

Finally,  he  briefly  recounted  his  experience  in 
old  Barbette's  cabin,  and  asked  if  they  knew  the  ex- 
planation of  her  strange  words  and  stranger  be- 
havior. 

"  Yes,  every  one  in  Mirabelle  knows,  Monsieur,'' 
responded  Joan,  hesitantly.  "  It  is  not  a  pleasant 
story,  but  perhaps  it  would  be  better  if  Monsieur 
understood,  for  it  is  otherwise  hard  not  to  blame  old 


190    THE  MAID  OF  MIRABELLE 

Barbette  —  who  is  really  not  to  blame  for  what  she 
may  do,  or  say.  It  is  again  the  war,  Monsieur.  It 
is  said  that  once  she  was  very  pretty,  in  spite  of  her 
twisted  back,  and  she  was  a  gypsy  fortune-teller  in 
the  South  of  France,  where  there  is  much  money. 
She  was  frugal,  and  very  well-to-do  when  the  war 
commenced.  She  had  two  daughters,  one  very,  very 
lovely,  and  much  younger  than  the  other,  who  was 
the  mother  of  the  poor  little  girl,  the  father  of 
whom  was  ...  a  Boche.  They  lived  all  together 
in  one  of  the  villages  yonder,  in  great  contentment, 
and  all  men  regarded  him  as  a  good  husband  and 
father.  But  he  was  Boche,  and  a  devil  slept  within 
his  heart.  So  when  war  was  declared  he  stole  all  of 
old  Barbette's  money  and  escaped  into  Germany, 
where  he  re-entered  the  army  of  his  Fatherland.  It 
killed  the  poor  wife,  and  started  to  turn  the  brain  of 
the  old  grandmother,  Monsieur ;  but  it  was  only  the 
beginning  of  horrors  for  her.  For  soon  he  came 
back,  not  alone,  but  with  thousands  of  his  country- 
men. They  swept  over  the  little  village,  which  had 
for  years  been  home  to  him;  they  ravaged  and 
burned;  they  killed  his  former  neighbors,  and  he 
laughed  to  see  them  die.  And  then,  Monsieur,  they 
.  .  .  Oh,  I  cannot  tell  you,  but  his  own  sister-in-law 
—  that  beautiful  young  girl  —  was  made  to  die  also, 
and  he  .  .  " 


CONVERGING  PATHS         191 

There  was  a  strained  silence  in  the  room,  and 
Daniel  felt  the  blood  pounding  hotly  in  his  temples. 

"  Old  Barbette  saw  it  all.  Then  she  managed  to 
escape  and  hide  herself  and  the  little  one,  who  was 
scarcely  more  than  a  baby  then,  in  the  cellar  of  her 
ruined  home.  And  later  she  got  away,  the  good 
God  alone  knows  how,  and  came  here  on  foot 
through  the  night,  for  the  Germans  were  stopped 
just  the  other  side  of  those  near-by  hills,  as  Monsieur 
knows.  So  one  cannot  blame  old  Barbette,  can  one, 
Monsieur?  And  we  try  to  be  very  kind  to  her, 
although  it  is  sometimes  difficult." 

And  Daniel  nodded  with  a  new  understanding. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

THE   SINGERS 

ANOTHER  week  had  added  itself  to  the  caravan 
of  passing  days;  again  Daniel  was  homeward 
headed,  after  a  more  extended  tour  of  his  new 
region  than  he  had  made  during  his  first  visit  to  it, 
and  hastening  with  a  joyful  heart  toward  the  mag- 
netic pole  of  his  thoughts. 

He  came  to  the  corner,  in  the  shadows  of  which 
tragedy  had  lurked  on  the  previous  occasion,  and, 
as  he  turned  it,  he  found  a  group  of  children,  in- 
cluding his  especial  friends,  standing  in  unnatural 
silence  before  old  Barbette's  tiny  cabin.  There  was 
awe  and  interest  on  every  small  face. 

"  Why  so  quiet,  my  little  ones  ?  "  he  called  out, 
cheerfully. 

Georgette  ran  forward,  and  slipped  her  hand  into 
his.  Then  nodding  towards  the  cabin,  she  whis- 
pered, "  The  strange  little  girl,  Rose,  is  dying  in 
there,  Monsieur." 

192 


THE  SINGERS  193 

Daniel  was  shocked,  but,  before  he  could  ask  a 
question,  Pierre  broke  in  with  eager  impetuosity, 
"  My  Joan  said  that  she  is  going  up  to  Paradise, 
and  I  am  watching  to  see  her  go.  Do  you  think 
that  she  will  come  right  through  the  roof,  Monsieur 
American  ?  " 

"  Hush,  Pierre.  It  is  wicked  to  talk  like  that 
about  people  who  are  going  to  Paradise,"  chided  his 
elder  sister,  as  she  placed  her  hand  over  the  loqua- 
cious mouth.  "  This  morning  I  took  her  my  best 
poupee,  which  Jean  found  for  me  in  Verdun,  and  I 
love  the  most  of  all,  but  she  would  not  look  at  it. 
Do  you  think  that  the  old  witch  will  give  it  back  to 
me  ?  "  she  added,  wistfully. 

"  Yes,  I  think  so,"  replied  Daniel.  "  Now  all  of 
you  run  away  and  play.  It  is  not  nice  to  stand  and 
stare  like  this." 

The  children  moved  slowly  off  for  a  few  paces, 
and  then  turned,  to  continue  their  watch,  as  the  man 
climbed  the  platform  steps. 

Old  Barbette  had  seen  him  coming,  and  she  softly 
opened  the  door.  Within  the  single  diminutive 
room  sat  one  of  the  placid  nursing  sisters  from 
the  near-by  convent,  her  hands  folded  over  a  crucifix 
on  her  lap,  from  which  her  eyes  did  not  waver,  even 
when  the  visitor  spoke. 

"  They  tell   me   that  the  little  one   is   very  HI, 


194    THE  MAID  OF  MIRABELLE 

Madame.  Is  it  true?  Is  there  anything  that  I  can 
do  to  help  you  ?  " 

"  No,  Monsieur,  no  one  can  do  anything,  now. 
But  it  is  just  as  well,  just  as  well.  She  will  be 
happier  in  Paradise  than  with  old  Barbette,  and  I 
think  that  there  is  enough  French  in  her  soul  to  save 
her  from  hell." 

"  The  soul  knows  no  nationality,  Madame,"  he 
answered. 

"  You  think  not?  The  Boche  say  that  there  is  a 
German  God,  so  there  must  be  a  German  soul." 

Not  wishing  to  argue  with  her,  he  inquired,  "  Is 
it  ...  is  the  trouble  ..." 

"  The  soldier  doctor  said  that  she  was  not  injured 
by  her  fall ;  he  would  say  so  anyway,  and  I  do  not 
know.  But  since  that  night  she  has  faded  slowly 
away,  like  a  bruised  flower,  and  neither  he,  nor  old 
Barbette  —  who  knows  of  curing  herbs  that  are 
better  than  any  which  the  physicians  give  —  has 
been  able  to  help  her.  But  I  hold  no  regrets.  The 
part  of  her  that  I  hate,  will  die,  and  that  which  I 
love  will  live  on  forever,  and  be  again  with  her 
sainted  mother,  who  was  also  a  martyr  on  earth. 
Old  Barbette  knows;  has  He  not  told  her  that  it 
would  be  so  ?  " 

"'He?'" 

"  But  yes,  the  bon  Dieu,"  came  the  simple  answer. 


THE  SINGERS  195 

"  I  am  sorry  .  .  .  No,  perhaps  it  is  better  that  I 
be  glad,  with  you,  Madame.  But  if  there  is  any- 
thing that  I  can  do,  you  will  call  on  me  ?  " 

"  I  thank  you,  Monsieur,  but  there  is  nothing, 
nothing." 

The  old  woman  had  been  speaking  more  calmly 
than  Daniel  had  ever  heard  her  speak  before,  but 
the  placid  look  suddenly  left  her  eyes,  and  her 
strange  face  twisted  horridly.  "  He  has  killed  her, 
the  lieutenant  has  killed  my  little  Rose,  but  he  will 
pay,  his  soul  will  sweat  with  the  tortures  of  the 
damned,  and  then  old  Barbette  will  laugh."  The 
uncanny  cackling  which  the  man  had  heard  several 
times  before,  and  which  sent  a  creepy  sensation 
down  his  back,  began  again,  and  he  hastily  with- 
drew, to  seek  the  happier  welcome  which  he  knew 

awaited  him  at  the  top  of  the  Rue  du  Mont. 

******** 

A  detailed  record  of  the  incidents  of  the  two 
months  which  followed  would  furnish  but  varia- 
tions upon  one  theme,  a  simple  composition  based 
on  the  life  and  labor  of  every  day,  with  familiar 
strains  of  Love's  Old  Sweet  Song  in  it,  little  trills 
of  laughter,  and  a  deeper  obbligato,  which  carried  a 
note  of  pain  and  struggle. 

There  was  a  chorus  to  complete  the  harmonies, 
but  three  persons  furnished  the  leading  parts. 


196    THE  MAID  OF  MIRABELLE 

It  was  Joan,  whose  life  sang  the  lighter  melody, 
for,  except  when  her  thoughts  turned  toward  the  little 
graveyard  across  the  way,  she  was  very  happy.  The 
familiar  cottage  had  an  element  of  new  enchantment 
because  of  the  presence  there,  at  intervals,  of  the 
American,  who  had  become  for  her  the  dearest  com- 
rade imaginable,  and  the  presence  almost  constantly 
of  the  brave  and  gay  young  poilu,  who,  without  the 
need  of  spoken  words,  proclaimed  himself  her  suitor. 
And  surely  he  was  one  of  whom  any  girl  in  Joan's 
place  might  well  have  been  proud.  Her  happy 
thoughts  made  play  of  the  daily  tasks  which  were 
hers  to  perform,  for  when  one's  mind  is  filled  with 
air  castles  which  it  is  perpetually  building,  mundane 
matters  can  find  but  little  place  in  it  —  a  fact  which 
was  often  exasperatingly  apparent  to  her  mother, 
who  would  catch  her  day-dreaming,  with  her  em- 
broidery held  in  idle  hands,  and  cry,  "  Joan, 
what  art  thou  thinking  of,  to  be  so  idle  ?  Dost  thou 
not  remember  that  the  price  of  everything  was  never 
so  high  as  to-day,  that  it  daily  goes  higher,  and  that 
only  by  all  of  us  working  ceaselessly,  can  we  live  at 
all?  Thou,  who  wert  ever  so  common-sensed  and 
so  industrious,  hast  changed  into  something  which 
thy  mother  cannot  understand.  Is  it,  then,  that  the 
American  has  rilled  thy  empty  head  with  foolish 
visions  of  a  country,  not  like  our  poor  France,  but 


THE  SINGERS  197 

where  every  one  is  rich  —  thou  rememberest  the 
letter  of  thy  brother  Henri?  Dost  thou  dream  of 
being  a  fine  lady,  dressed  in  silks  and  the  fine  linen, 
such  as  we  embroider,  but  cannot  afford  to  wear?  " 

"  No,  my  mother,  it  is  not  of  that,  that  I  dream," 
Joan  would  answer,  as,  flushed  of  face,  she  re- 
busied  herself  with  her  work. 

"  Perhaps  of  that  poilu,  Jean  Harent,  then.  Is 
it  not  bad  enough  that  he  is  here  at  all  hours,  taking 
up  thy  time  with  his  foolishness,  without  thy  think- 
ing more  foolishness  concerning  him,  when  he  is 
absent  ?  I  shall  certainly  speak  to  Monsieur  le  Com- 
mandant, and  ask  him,  for  the  love  of  God,  to  give 
his  men  something  to  do  to  keep  them  busy,  for  they 
are  a  lazy  lot,  now  that  the  fighting  is  over,  and  they 
have  only  to  eat  and  sleep,  and  draw  pay  from 
France  for  doing  it." 

"  That  is  not  their  fault,  my  mother,  and  surely 
they  have  earned  the  right  to  rest  for  a  while.  Be- 
sides, what  is  twenty-five  centimes  a  day?  " 

"  Yes,  what  is  twenty-five  centimes  a  day  ?  It  is 
nothing,  in  this  age  —  especially  it  is  nothing  to 
dream  of  marriage  on,"  she  would  add,  pointedly. 

"And  who  is  dreaming  of  marriage?  Not  I!" 
Joan  would  toss  her  pretty  head,  airily. 

But  whether  she  spoke  the  full  truth,  or  not,  there 
was  one  who  did  dream  of  it,  night  and  day. 


198   THE  MAID  OF  MIRABELLE 

Jean  had  come  to  stay  in  Mirabelle,  rejoicing  in 
the  thought  that  he  was  to  be  close  to  the  girl  who, 
seen  but  once,  had  spoken  to  his  young  heart  with 
the  voice  of  a  simple  siren,  and  every  day  thereafter 
the  ship  of  his  life  was  drawn  nearer  and  nearer  to 
the  passionate  rapids  which  would  sweep  it  on  to  the 
rocks  where  it  might  be  dashed  to  pieces,  or  caught, 
and  safely  held.  He  wished  for  no  wax  with  which 
to  stop  his-  ears  against  the  song  of  the  siren,  no 
rope  with  which  to  bind  himself  to  the  restraining 
mast. 

He  heard  other  voices;  the  sharp  military  com- 
mands of  his  officers,  the  boisterous  talk,  and  loud 
laughter  of  his  companions  and  the  every-day  con- 
verse of  the  villagers,  but  they  merely  furnished 
rude  interruptions  to  the  love  song  that  his  heart 
was  everlastingly  singing. 

For  a  time  he  had  been  quite  content  to  dwell  in 
the  land  of  dreams,  for  his  anticipations  were  per- 
fect, more  perfect,  he  knew,  than  their  realization 
might  be,  for  they  were  what  he  made  them,  while 
life  is  subject  to  many  things  beyond  one's  control, 
and  such  forces  are  not  always  kindly  ones. 

Besides,  the  thought  of  that  twenty-five  centimes 
a  day  was  a  deterrent  to  speech.  Yes,  it  was  al- 
together better  to  wait  for  a  little  while.  He  had 
served  more  than  his  three  required  years  under  the 


THE  SINGERS  199 

tri-color,  and,  in  a  few  months,  at  the  most,  he  would 
be  demobilized  and  free  again.  He  had  no  fear  of 
the  future;  the  natural  optimism  and  courage  of 
youth  saw  to  that.  Perhaps  he  woujd  settle  down  in 
Verdun,  and  ply  his  old  trade  for  the  benefit  of  the 
many  visitors  who  would  be  sure  to  come  there, 
to  view  the  battlefields ;  perhaps  he  would  remain  in 
Mirabelle.  Men  were  scarce,  economic  readjust- 
ment would  occur  in  time,  and  he  would  grow  pros- 
perous, become  a  landowner,  a  substantial  citizen 
of  the  place,  perhaps  even  the  Mayor  —  and  then  his 
children  would  be  very  proud  of  him. 

As  the  days  passed,  however,  a  discordant  note 
marred  his  song,  a  shadow  crept  into  his  bright 
dreams,  and  made  him  decide  to  end  them,  and  see 
if  they  had  been  merely  dreams.  Jealousy  is  often 
bred  of  nothing  at  all,  and  in  any  case  its  conception 
is  amazingly  easy.  An  idle  whisper  of  gossip  is 
enough  to  father  it,  or  an  intercepted  glance,  which 
may  have  meant  nothing.  So,  at  least,  it  proved 
with  Jean,  and  his  heart  was  troubled. 

There  was  a  third  singer,  and  Daniel's  part  was 
the  most  difficult,  and  full  of  troublesome  passages. 

He  strove  continually  to  turn  his  eyes  away  from 
the  notes  which  were  engraven  on  his  memory,  and 
to  forget  the  haunting  melody  in  his  heart,  by  in- 
creasingly close  application  to  his  work.  The  labor 


200    THE  MAID  OF  MIRABELLE 

was  hard,  interesting,  absorbing,  and  he  devoted 
himself  to  it  so  imstintingly  that  he  went  back  to 
Mirabelle  rarely,  and  each  time  more  tired  in  body 
and  mind  —  a  condition  which  made  his  powers  of 
resistance  to  the  siren's  song  less  strong.  But, 
Achilles-like,  he  continued  to  struggle  against  it  with 
all  the  will  which  he  possessed. 

Nevertheless,  the  memory  of  Faith  grew  daily 
more  dim,  effaced  by  the  image  of  Joan,  which  was 
cut  deeper  and  deeper  into  his  heart.  When  he  was 
at  home,  he  found  it  impossible  not  to  be  with  her 
almost  constantly,  and  she  added  to  his  troubles  by 
seeking  his  companionship  at  every  chance,  for  the 
revelation  of  the  possibility  of  a  frank,  natural 
cameraderie  between  a  man  and  girl,  such  as  he  had 
pictured  to  her,  carried  a  powerful  appeal.  More- 
over, her  active  mind  craved  the  knowledge  which 
he  was  able  to  impart,  especially  during  their  all-too- 
rare  lessons  in  English. 

Joan  even  appeared  a  little  jealous  of  the  atten- 
tions which  he  paid  to  Suzette,  who  had  also  become 
very  dear  to  him,  and  whom  he  now  called  his  little 
sister  —  a  term  which  he  could  never  bring  himself 
to  use  in  respect  to  Joan.  On  her  part,  the  younger 
girl  frankly  worshipped  him. 

Daniel  and  Joan  took  many  walks  together,  or, 
during  the  cozy  evenings,  sat  close  side  by  side  over 


THE  SINGERS  201 

the  same  lesson  book,  which  he  had  bought  for  her, 
and  the  practice  themes  which  she  wrote  during  his 
absences.  They  were  the  cause  of  much  amusement 
and  happy  laughter,  but  one  particular  exercise 
lingered  persistently  in  his  mind,  for  it  had  stirred 
him  deeply  because  of  the  picture  of  her  own  heart 
which  it  carried.  She  had  written  it  after  having 
given  him  her  word  not  to  look  in  the  vocabulary  or 
dictionary,  and  to  use  only  words  which  he  had 
taught  her.  Its  title  was : 

"  A  Evening  of  winter  at  a  happy  family's." 
And  it  read : 

"  It  is  five  o'clock.  I  wak  with  my  mother.  The 
moon  shines  not  yet.  Under  a  gloomy  sky,  the 
ground  is  white.  It  snows.  Br!  Br!  It  is  very 
cold. 

"  We  enter  to  our  friends  Mrs.  N.  '  Good  eve- 
ning ! '  *  Good  evening ! '  The  children  bring  us 
chairs,  we  thank  them  and  we  sit  down.  A  good 
fire  is  burning  in  the  stove.  One  lamp  lights  the 
room.  Here  it  is  bright,  it  is  warm,  it  is  very  good. 

"  Mamma  is  speaking  to  Mrs.  N.  I  hear  them; 
and  am  looking  into  the  room. 

"  Placed  before  a  little  desk,  Charles  and  Mary, 
the  eldest,  do  their  exercises  and  learn  their  lessons. 
They  are  good  pupils,  very  diligent,  who  will  do 
pleasure  to  their  parents. 


202    THE  MAID  OF  MIRABELLE 

"  Daniel,  the  last  born,  who  has  drunk  milk,  is  sit- 
ting on  his  mother's  knees.  Upon  his  white  lips  he 
spreads  his  red  tongue,  he  is  glad. 

"  But  soon  his  pretty  little  eyes  shine  less,  he  is 
sleepy.  His  mother,  who  looks  him  with  kindness, 
is  speaking  of  him,  '  He  is  charming,  is  it  not  ?  '  I 
think,  '  what  a  happy  mamma,  but  how  much  good 
also!' 

"  I  see,  under  the  stove,  the  slippers  of  Mr.  N. 
From  the  kitchen  comes  a  good  smell,  the  supper  is 
made.  Everything  is  ready  for  arrival  of  the  father. 

"  Somebody  knocks  at  the  door.  The  children 
tell,  '  it  is  papa !  It  is  papa ! '  It  is  time  for  us  to  go 
away.  We  tell  good-night  to  the  happy  family  and 
we  leave,  delighted  of  our  evening,  we  go  home." 


CHAPTER  XV 

MORNING 

APRIL  had  come,  and  Sunday.  As  Daniel  awoke 
from  a  long  sleep  in  his  comfortable  bed,  and 
stretched  lazily,  in  the  recollection  that  it  was  the 
day  of  rest  after  six  days  of  grinding  toil,  the 
feeling  of  spring  in  the  air  pervaded  his  body  with  a 
pleasant  languor.  Perhaps  it  uas  the  spring  which 
made  his  first  waking  thought  turn  on  Joan,  but 
probably  it  would  have  been  the  same  under  any 
circumstances,  for  she  had  been  in  his  mind  when  he 
went  to  sleep.  Indeed,  she  was  now  seldom  out  of 
it  at  all.  She  was  with  him,  consciously  or  sul> 
consciously,  during  his  waking  and  working  hours, 
and  he  went  to  sleep  to  dream  of  her. 

He  lay  there,  beginning  to  toss  restlessly,  as  the 
oft-waged  battle  between  his  heart,  and  his  allied 
will  and  conscience,  was  renewed,  and  caught  him- 
self thinking,  "  If  I  were  a  painter,  and  wanted  to 
picture  the  devil,  it  would  not  be  as  a  terrifying 

203 


204    THE  MAID  OF  MIRABELLE 

brute  with  cloven  hoofs,  horns  and  a  tail,  but  as  the 
fairest  woman  I  could  imagine  .  .  .  and  that  would 
be  Joan."  And  straightway  he  laughed  over  the 
utter  absurdity  of  the  idea  of  one  so  simple  and  so 
sweet  made  to  represent  Satan.  "  Just  the  same, 
there  is  some  foundation  for  the  common  saying 
of  men,  that  women  are  the  very  devil,  for  they  are 
temptation  personified." 

A  gentle  rap  on  the  door  interrupted  his  musings, 
and,  when  he  answered  from  the  depths  of  his  bed, 
the  girl's  merry  voice  called.  "  Thou  art  a  sleepy- 
head this  marvelous  morning,  pal  of  mine.  But  I  do 
not  blame  thee  for  thou  must  have  been  very  weary 
last  night." 

"  Why  must  I  have  been  ?  "  he  demanded. 

"  Because  thou  wert  cross  to  those  who  love  thee, 
and  I  had  never  seen  thee  so  before." 

"  Was  I  ?  Then  I  am  sorry  and  apologize  hum- 
bly, although  not  on  bended  knees,  because  .  .  .  ' 

"  That  is  where  thou  shouldst  be,  and  I,  as  well, 
for  the  bells  have  already  ceased  their  calling  to  the 
morning  mass,  and  thither  I  am  bound,  as  soon  as 
I  have  delivered  a  message  to  thee." 

"  Is  it  really  so  late  ?  "  Daniel  asked  in  surprise, 
as  he  swung  himself  half  out  of  bed.  "  Then  I 
must  have  slept  for  twelve  solid  hours." 

"  As,  indeed,  thou  hast,  which  is  the  reason  that  I 


MORNING  205 


called  thee  '  sleepy-head.'  But  I  cannot  wait  here 
to  talk  with  thee.  I  must  deliver  my  message,  and 
run.  Monsieur  Jean  is  waiting  below,  and  .  .  .  ' 
Daniel's  heart  sank.  "...  and  he  says  that  the 
Lieutenant  Villier  invites  thee  to  take  dejeuner  with 
them  at  noon,  and  will  not  receive  '  no  '  for  the  an- 
swer, since  it  is  his  last  day  in  Mirabelle,  and  as  a 
soldier.  This  afternoon  he  departs  to  be  demobi- 
lized, and  return  to  civilian  life  in  Paris.  What 
shall  I  say  that  thy  reply  is  to  be?  " 

The  man  knew  that  the  meal  would  be  an  hilari- 
ous one,  and  his  Quaker  conscience  sternly  forbade 
him  to  be  a  party  to  such  a  festivity  on  the  Sabbath. 
But  Villier  was  a  friend  whom  he  might  never  see 
again,  and*  a  refusal  would  appear  churlishly  dis- 
courteous. He  was  weary  of  finding  himself  at  all 
points  in  conflict  with  his  environment,  and,  with 
the  thought  that  it  would  only  be  for  once,  he 
yielded.  "  Tell  him  that  I  will  come  .  .  .  gladly," 
he  called. 

"  Good.  I  go,  but  I  am  blowing  thee  a  kiss 
through  the  crack  above  the  door,  Monsieur  Lazy- 
bones." Joan's  feet,  daintily  shod  this  morning, 
from  the  sound  on  the  stairs,  pattered  away,  and 
Daniel  was  left  alone.  The  balmy  air  gently  stirred 
the  curtains  at  the  window,  birds  were  singing  out- 
side, all  nature  seemed  to  have  allied  itself  with  his 


206    THE  MAID  OF  MIRABELLE 

heart.  What  was  the  use  of  continuing  to  struggle 
against  the  ever-strengthening  tide,  when  it  was  so 
much  easier  to  drift?  He  hurried  to  the  window 
to  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  girl,  whose  laughing  voice 
he  now  heard  outside,  and,  from  his  position  of 
partial  concealment,  saw  Joan  and  Jean  as  they 
started  down  the  street  close  together.  The  soldier's 
hand  was  grasping  her  elbow,  and  the  sight  filled 
him  with  a  senseless  anger.  Suddenly  she  turned, 
caught  a  glimpse  of  him,  before  he  could  draw  back, 
and  tossed  him  another  kiss  from  her  finger-tips. 
He  had  a  feeling  that  Jean  was  rebuking  her  for  her 
act,  for  the  poilu  also  looked  quickly  around,  and 
then  began  to  speak  rapidly,  whereupon  the  girl 
withdrew  her  arm  from  his  grasp. 

Another  had  witnessed  the  incident,  also,  —  little 
Pierre,  who  was  once  more  engaged  in  his  ever- 
lasting march  up  and  down  the  roadway,  more  com- 
pletely than  ever  arrayed  as  a  soldier,  for  a  cast-off 
canteen  of  his  big  brother's  dangled  against  his  legs, 
and  part  of  a  knapsack  hid  his  whole  back  from 
view,  when  he  reversed.  Although  Daniel  had  hur- 
riedly stepped  out  of  sight,  the  child  ran  to  a  spot 
beneath  the  window,  and  called,  shrilly,  "  Good- 
morning,  Monsieur  Americain.  It  is  a  long  time 
since  Pierre  has  seen  you.  What  have  you  got  to 
give  me,  to-day?  Did  you  bring  me  any  bonbons ?  " 


MORNING  207 


There  was  something  irresistible  in  the  naive  ap- 
peal from  the  childish  lips,  and  Daniel  braved  the 
public  eye  long  enough  to  lean  for  a  moment  from 
the  window,  and  answer,  "  Yes,  I  have  some  of  thy 
beloved  bonbons,  which  I  bought  thee  at  the  Amer- 
ican army  store  in  Nancy.  If  thou  wilt  wait  until 
I  am  dressed,  I  will  bring  them  to  thee." 

"  Then  I  will  wait."  The  lad  seated  himself  on 
a  corner  stone  of  the  low  curb,  a  very  diminutive 
Patience  on  a  Monument,  and  Daniel  retired  to 
make  his  morning  toilet.  When  he  went  downstairs 
and  out-of-doors,  the  boy  had  disappeared,  however, 
to  play  house  with  the  three-year-old  daughter  of  a 
neighbor,  within  the  stable  aperture  of  their  dwell- 
ing, but  Daniel's  call  made  him  a  connubial  deserter 
—  another  bit  of  evidence  in  support  of  the 
saying  that  the  way  to  a  man's  heart  is  through  his 
stomach. 

"  But  why  art  thou  not  at  church,  with  thy  sis- 
ters ?  "  he  asked  as  he  surrendered  a  handful  of  the 
tinsel-wrapped  sweets  to  the  beseeching  child. 

"  I  am  a  soldier,  and  they  never  go  to  church," 
answered  Pierre,  between  munches. 

"  Indeed  ?  Is  not  thy  big  brother  Jean  a  soldier, 
and  did  I  not  see  him  starting  for  church,  but  a  few 
moments  ago?" 

"  Oh,  he  did  not  go  to  church  —  he  went  merely 


208    THE  MAID  OF  MIRABELLE 

to  be  with  Joan,  who  was  going  there.  He  is  going 
to  marry  her,  I  think,"  the  boy  added,  seriously. 

"  Perhaps  Mile.  Joan  will  have  something  to  say 
about  that,"  replied  the  man,  and  was  immediately 
struck  with  the  absurdity  of  making  such  a  state- 
ment to  a  six-year-old. 

"  But  of  course  she  will  marry  him,  if  he  wants 
her  to.  He  is  my  brother,  Jean,"  asserted  Pierre 
with  finality.  "  I  should  like  to  live  with  Joan,  be- 
cause she  gives  me  much  bread  and  sugar,  and  I 
love  her.  But  I  would  also  like  to  go  to  America 
with  you,  when  you  return.  Will  you  take  me, 
Monsieur  ?  " 

Daniel  had  many  times  told  the  children  of  France 
stories  about  the  wonderland  across  the  sea,  and, 
more  than  once,  had  been  asked  the  same  question 
by  other  little  orphans,  whose  dearest  home  ties  had 
been  broken.  And  he  had  had  to  watch  the  light  of 
happy  expectancy  die  from  their  faces,  as  he  an- 
swered that  he  could  not  make  their  dreams  come 
true,  for  France  had  need  of  all  her  children,  and 
would  not  let  them  go. 

"  But  if  I  should  take  thee  with  me,  what  would 
thy  brother  Jean  do  ?  Would  he  not  be  lonesome  ?  " 
he  responded,  evasively. 

"  He  would  have  Joan,  and  so  would  not  be  so 
very  lonesome." 


MORNING  209 


"  Perhaps.  We  shall  see."  Daniel  turned  ab- 
ruptly towards  the  house,  leaving  Pierre  standing 
with  his  mouth  wide  open  in  surprise,  and  dripping 

chocolate. 

******** 

Mass  was  ended.  Joan  and  her  soldier  escort  — 
who  walked  very  erect,  and  paid  no  attention  to  the 
winks  and  whispered  remarks  of  a  group  of  his 
comrades,  who  were  lounging  near  by  —  stepped 
from  the  cool  shadows  of  the  church  into  the  warm 
spring  sunshine. 

"  Come,  I  need  not  return  to  assist  at  the  popote 
for  another  half-hour,  and  thou  canst  surely  give  me 
so  short  a  time,  Joan.  Let  us  walk  a  little  way  into 
the  country,  for  truly  spring  has  come  to-day,  and 
it  has  been  a  long  time  since  it  was  a  pleasure  to  be 
out-of-doors,"  pleaded  the  man. 

Joan  demurred  for  a  moment,  and  pretended  that 
her  services  were  immediately  in  great  demand  at 
home,  but  it  was  fairly  evident  that  she  hoped  her 
protest  would  be  masterfully  overruled ;  and  she  was 
not  disappointed. 

.Side  by  side,  they  strolled  slowly  up  the  Rue  du 
Mont,  past  Lieutenant  Villier's  quarters,  from  the 
door  of  which  Jean's  fellow  orderly  and  chef  hailed 
him  to  say  that  there  were  other  things  to  be  done 
that  day  beside  taking  a  pretty  damoiselle  walking, 


210    THE  MAID  OF  MIRABELLE 

past  the  barracks  and  Joan's  own  home,  and  out 
along  the  road  which  quickly  dipped  down  amid  the 
newly  tinted  fields,  and  —  in  the  beginnings  of  its 
wanderlust  —  forgot  the  village  where  it  had  been 
born. 

Twice  Jean  tried  to  take  possession  of  the  girl's 
hand,  and  she  laughingly  snatched  it  away  from 
him,  but  her  face  proclaimed  that  she  was  not  angry, 
for  the  color  came  and  went  in  her  cheeks,  and  her 
eyes  sparkled  mischievously. 

"  Why  dost  thou  tease  me  like  that?"  he  finally 
cried,  in  manlike  exasperation.  "  Thou  knowest 
that  I  am  not  merely  playing  with  thee,  Joan." 

"'Not  playing?'  "  she  echoed,  in  a  tone  of  in- 
nocent surprise.  "  But  it  is  in  games  that  the  chil- 
dren join  hands,  is  it  not  so?  " 

"  Perhaps,  but  we  are  no  longer  children ;  at  least 
/  am  not." 

"  Not  children  ?  "  she  mocked,  teasingly. 

Half  angry,  and  desperately  in  earnest,  he  made  a 
third  attempt,  and  grasped  her  fingers  so  firmly  that 
her  struggles  to  free  them  were  futile,  whereupon 
she  cried,  "  How  strong  thou  art,  Jean  I  Thou  art 
hurting  me."  And  he  instantly  released  them,  with 
a  word  of  tender  solicitude.  "  See,"  she  said, 
holding  her  hand  up  very  close  to  his  lips.  "  There 
are  the  red  marks  which  thy  big,  brutal  fingers 


MORNING  211 


made."  Marks  may  have  been  there,  but  he  did  not 
pause  to  make  a  close  examination,  rather  prefer- 
ring to  apply  the  ancient  remedy  immediately,  and 
take  no  chances.  And  thereupon  a  coal  black  crow, 
that  had  been  standing  in  the  field  beside  the  road, 
with  his  sharp  head  cunningly  tilted  and  his  bright 
eyes  taking  it  all  in,  turned,  and  flapped  lazily  away, 
giving  utterance  to  a  disgusted  caw  at  such  human 
foolishness.  That  was  clearly  not  his  idea  of  love- 
making,  and  he  heartily  agreed  with  Puck.  But  the 
pair  in  the  roadway  were  oblivious  of  his  departure, 
or  observation. 

"  Jean !  They  are  not  thy  fingers,"  chided  Joan, 
but  the  rebuke  sounded  more  like  a  caress. 

"  Perhaps  not  yet,  but  I  mean  to  make  them  mine 
some  day,  dear  heart,  for  I  love  thee.  Surely  thou 
knowest  that." 

"If  thou  hadst  not  waited  until  spring  came,  to 
tell  me  so,  perhaps  I  might  have  believed  thee.  But 
any  girl  knows  that  she  cannot  trust  the  word  of  a 
man  on  such  a  day  as  this." 

"  But  thou  dost  believe  me,  Joan,"  he  insisted, 
still  retaining  her  hand,  and  drawing  her  a  little 
closer  to  him.  "  And  I  know  that  thou  lovest  me, 
also." 

"  Then  thou  knowest  more  than  I  do,"  she  an- 
swered, as  she  deftly  eluded  the  arm  that  was  almost 


212    THE  MAID  OF  MIRABELLE 

encircling  her  slim  waist.  "  Perhaps  them  art  over- 
full of  self-conceit,  Monsieur  Jean.  Has  it  never 
occurred  to  thee  that  I  might  love  .  .  .  another  ?  " 
"  Joan !  "  There  was  sudden  pain  and  a  note  of 
jealousy  in  the  word,  and  the  woman's  heart  leaped, 
and  laughed,  for  what  woman  does  not  like  to  tease 
a  man,  and  thus  test  his  love  in  such  a  manner,  or 
play  with  the  fire  within  it  a  little,  before  yielding 
herself  as  a  sacrifice  to  the  god  of  the  flame?  And, 
indeed,  Joan  was  not  quite  certain,  in  her  own  mind, 
that  she  was  yet  ready  to  do  that.  Her  young  heart 
had  been  in  a  dilemma  for  many  a  day,  and  if  it 
started  to  trip  in  faster  measure  when  Jean's  step 
sounded  in  the  entryway,  it  also  grew  warm  with 
an  affection  which  might  have  been  sisterly,  or  ma- 
ternal, or  something  different  from  either,  when  the 
strong,  quiet,  forceful  American  was  near  her.  If 
Daniel  had  never  entered  her  life  she  would  prob- 
ably have  been  certain  that  she  loved  Jean,  who  had 
appealed  to  her  so  strongly  from  the  moment  of 
their  first  meeting,  and  who,  since  his  arrival  in 
Mirabelle,  had  been  so  constant  a  suitor.  But  the 
former  brought  into  the  house  an  element  of  ro- 
mance, the  appeal  of  unknown  lands,  and  she  fre- 
quently asked  herself  what  her  heart  would  answer 
if  he  should  ever  appear  in  the  role  of  an  impetuous 
lover  —  a  young  Lochinvar  out  of  the  West  —  and 


MORNING  213 


always  had  to  give  the  same  answer.  She  did  not 
know.  Not  that  he  had  ever,  by  word  or  act,  sug- 
gested such  a  thing,  for,  having  declared  himself 
her  "  pal,"  Daniel  had  undeviatingly  lived  up  to  the 
name  as  he  had  explained  it.  But  her  womanly 
intuition  had  at  times  served  as  a  seismograph  to 
register  tremors  within  the  man  which  he  had  con- 
cealed from  the  eye. 

Joan  was  not  fickle  in  this ;  she  was  merely  young, 
a  woman,  and  French.  She  was  made  to  love,  and  be 
loved.  Both  men  appealed  to  her,  each  in  his  way. 
The  appeal  of  Jean  was,  perhaps  the  stronger,  be- 
cause it  held  the  call  of  kind  to  kind,  but  she  knew 
just  how  he  stood  and  was  not  quite  ready  yet  to 
yield  her  whole  heart  to  him,  for  Daniel's  attitude 
piqued  her.  And  nothing  had  happened  to  stir  the 
hidden  depths  of  her  being,  and  strip  her  heart  and 
soul  bare. 

"  Joan !  "  repeated  Jean.  "  Thou  lovest  the 
American,  Monsieur  Steele?" 

The  girl  ignored  the  question  in  his  voice,  and 
answered,  "  But  thou  art  very  wise  this  morning, 
Monsieur.  First  thou  tellest  me  that  I  love  thee, 
and  then  that  it  is  the  American  whom  I  love.  And 
I  have  not  said  that  I  care  for  either." 

"  He  does  not  care  for  thee  as  I  do,  Joan,"  the 
man  went  on,  heedless  of  the  interruption.  "  These 


214    THE  MAID  OF  MIRABELLE 

Americans  are  far  from  home,  and  but  amuse  them- 
selves with  the  French  girls,  which  is  not,  perhaps, 
strange,  but  they  do  not  marry  them.  Or  if  they  do, 
unhappiness  is  sure  to  follow  for  the  wife,  every- 
thing is  so  different  over  there." 

Joan  merely  laughed,  and  Jean  became  desperate, 
and,  like  a  drowning  man,  began  to  grasp  at  straws. 
"  Thou  hast  been  unwise,  Joan,  to  have  been  with 
him  so  much,  and  appeared  so  intimate.  All  of  the 
villagers  are  whispering  about  it." 

The  words  produced  a  complete  change  in  the 
girl  and  her  vexation  showed  in  her  voice,  as  she 
replied,  tartly,  "  It  is  not  true,  and  even  if  it  is,  I 
am  very  angry  with  thee  for  listening  to  their  evil 
gossip,  and  repeating  it  to  me.  We  are  but  com- 
rades —  *  pals '  —  as  are  all  the  men  and  girls  in 
America." 

Her  opposition  merely  strengthened  him  in  his 
error,  and  he  persisted,  "  A  likely  story  he  has  told 
thee !  He  is  but  using  that  as  an  excuse  to  be  with 
thee  intimately.  And  it  is  as  I  have  said :  he  is  only 
playing  with  thy  heart.  Doubtless  he  is  already 
pledged  to  some  damoiselle  at  home  —  he  carries  a 
picture  of  a  very  beautiful  one,  for  I  have  seen  it." 

"And  so  have  I,  Monsieur.  It  is  that  of  his 
sister,"  answered  Joan,  triumphantly. 

"  Perhaps  he  has  told  thee  so,  but  that  proves 


MORNING  215 


nothing.  And  a  man  does  not  carry  the  photograph 
of  a  sister,  next  to  his  heart." 

"  Monsieur  Harent,  you  are  now  forgetting  your- 
self." The  girl  made  no  attempt  to  disguise  the 
anger  in  her  voice.  "  Poor  Henri  carried  my  picture 
like  that,  and  you  are  insulting  one  who  is  a  good 
friend  of  yours  .  .  .  and  of  mine  as  well.  I  am 
very  angry." 

Jean  knew  that  he  was  in  the  wrong,  and  that  in 
his  anxiety  he  had  gone  further  than  he  had  meant, 
but,  instead  of  retracting  his  words,  he  rushed 
blindly  on,  in  his  hurt  pride  and  passion,  crying, 
"  If  he  is  trifling  with  you,  and  any  harm  comes  of 
it,  I  shall  kill  him,  even  though  he  be  my  friend. 
Do  you  hear  me,  Joan?  I  shall  surely  kill  him." 

Suddenly  frightened  at  his  vehemence,  and  realiz- 
ing that  her  unwarranted  levity  had  caused  its  begin- 
ning, Joan  stretched  out  her  hand  with  an  appealing 
gesture,  and  would  have  taken  his.  But  he  was 
wilfully  blind  to  her  act.  Turning  abruptly,  he 
strode  off  up  the  road  and  left  her  alone,  ashamed 
and  greatly  troubled. 

As  he  walked,  with  the  hot  blood  pounding  more 
and  more  furiously  in  his  veins,  anger  —  partly  at 
himself,  partly  at  the  girl,  and  partly  at  Daniel  — 
mounted  steadily.  Never,  even  in  the  heat  of  the 
battle,  had  he  felt  himself  so  completely  in  the  grip 


216    THE  MAID  OF  MIRABELLE 

of  passionate  wrath,  and  the  sudden  sight  of  the 
American,  who  was  playing  with  his  little  brother 
and  sisters  before  the  le  Jeune  cottage,  snapped  the 
last  thread  of  his  self-restraint. 

With  fists  clinched  and  working,  Jean  strode  up 
to  him,  regardless  of  the  presence  of  several  others, 
to  whom  he  gave  no  heed,  and  scarcely  saw,  and 
stilled  the  friendly  greeting  which  was  on  Daniel's 
lips,  by  shouting,  "  You're  going  to  keep  away  from 
Joan  le  Jeune.  I  warn  you.  You  have  been  seen 
too  much,  and  too  intimately  with  her,  by  all  of 
Mirabelle,  and  if  any  harm  comes  to  her  through 
you,  American,  I  shall  kill  you.  Remember  that" 

He  turned  away,  white  with  passion,  and,  mar- 
shalling the  three  frightened  children  before  him 
with  a  sweep  of  his  long  arm,  he  hurried  off,  and 
left  Daniel,  amazed,  troubled  and  angry. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

NOON 

WITH  no  very  pleasant  expectations,  Daniel 
faced  the  prospect  of  entering  the  officers'  dining- 
room,  through  the  kitchen  where  Jean  and  his  fel- 
low orderly  would  be  at  work.  But  he  had  pledged 
his  word  to  be  present  at  Villier's  farewell  dejeuner, 
and,  in  addition,  he  could  not  think  of  giving  any 
evidence  of  the  concern  which  was  actually  his  over 
the  poilu's  impassioned  threat  and  insinuation,  by 
failing  to  appear.  As  the  church  clock  began  to 
announce  the  hour  of  mid-day,  he  stepped  from  the 
le  Jeune  cottage  ...  to  find  Jean  directly  in  front 
of  him,  in  the  roadway. 

The  soldier  paused,  and  then  passed  on  with 
face  averted,  but  Daniel  thought  that  he  read  in  his 
attitude  a  suggestion  of  shame  over  his  recent  out- 
burst, and  he  would  have  hurried  after  him  and 
spoken  a  conciliatory  word,  if  Joan  had  not  at  that 
moment  leaned  from  the  lower  window,  and,  with 

217 


218    THE  MAID  OF  MIRABELLE 

her  voice  lifted  so  that  both  men  could  hear  her 
clearly,  called,  "  It  is  such  a  perfect  day,  that  I 
should  like  to  take  thee  this  afternoon  to  my  secret 
hiding  place  in  the  ruins  of  the  old  chateau,  as  I 
have  often  promised  thee  that  I  would  sometime  do, 
Monsieur  Steele.  That  is,  if  thou  wouldst  care  to 
gx>  with  me." 

The  suggestion  pleased  Daniel,  and  he  gladly 
assented,  not  realizing  that  behind  the  invitation  lay 
a  woman's  pique,  and  sudden  purpose  to  punish 
another  who,  through  love,  had  offended  her. 

But  Jean  understood,  and  he  bit  his  lip  angrily 
as  he  walked  away,  head  very  erect,  to  complete  the 
errand-  upon  which  he  had  been  despatched. 

As  the  American  drew  near  the  house  which  he 
was  about  to  enter,  he  came  upon  a  group  of  little 
urchins  who  were  milling  around  Pierre,  and  teas- 
ing him  by  trying  to  wrest  away  his  most  precious 
possession  —  the  wooden  gun.  Tears  of  rage 
streaked  the  child's  none-too-clean  countenance,  and, 
seeing  his  friend  approaching,  he  fled  to  his  legs 
for  protection.  Daniel  effected  the  rescue  without 
incurring  the  hostility  of  the  enemy,  and,  after  he 
had  dried  Pierre's  tears  and  disengaged  himself 
from  the  clinging  hands,  he  hastened  into  the  house. 

A  half  dozen  officers  were  already  assembled  in 
the  room  where  the  popote  was  served,  although  a 


NOON  219 

high  bed  and  a  piano  showed  that  it  had  a  mixed 
object  in  the  plan  of  the  house,  and  the  new- 
comer's arrival  was  greeted  with  shouts  of  welcome 
and  laughter.  The  reason  for  the  especial  hilarity 
was  not  clear  to  him  until  he  turned  suddenly,  and 
found  the  child  close  to  his  heels,  and  regarding  him 
with  wistful  appeal. 

"  They  tried  to  take  my  gun  away  again,"  he 
confided,  as  he  smiled  ingratiatingly,  and  snuggled 
his  hand  into  Daniel's, 

Somewhat  amused,  and  a  bit  chagrined,  as  well, 
the  protector  attempted  to  lead  him  out,  but  Pierre 
rebelled  vigorously  with  body  and  voice,  and  he 
would  not  budge  until  one  hand  held  a  big  slice  of 
bread,  and  the  other  part  of  a  cake  of  chocolate, 
produced  by  Villier  .  .  .  and  the  street  appeared 
free  of  the  attacking  force.  Even  then  it  was  only 
Jean's  return,  dismayed  at  such  lese  majeste,  that 
sent  him  scurrying. 

"  Dejeuner  is  served,  Messieurs,"  announced  the 
orderly,  pointedly  avoiding  Daniel's  eye. 

"  At  table,  friends,"  said  Villier,  and  he  raised 
his  small  glass  of  porto,  adding,  "  Bon  appetit" 

"  To  your  good  health ! "  responded  the  others, 
including  Daniel,  who  would  have  drunk  the  toast 
in  water,  if  he  had  not  been  prevented  by  some  one 
who  declared  that  it  was  bad  luck. 


220    THE  MAID  OF  MIRABELLE 

"  Were  all  those  children  outside,  yours,  Mon- 
sieur ? "  demanded  Lieutenant  Villier,  beginning 
the  meal  with  a  jest,  and  when  Daniel  met  his  mood 
by  assenting,  he  cried,  "  Well  done,  my  American. 
On  behalf  of  France  I  thank  you." 

All  laughed,  except  a  young  adjutant,  whom  Dan- 
iel had  previously  found  to  be  of  a  deeply  serious 
nature.  He  rejoined  with,  "  That  has  ceased  to  be 
a  subject  for  jest,  merely.  France  is  now  more 
sadly  in  need  of  repopulating  than  ever." 

"  Truly  spoken,  O  philosophical  one,  but,  if  I 
recall  correctly,  your  preachments  and  practices  are 
as  far  apart  as  the  poles.  How  many  children  did 
you  tell  us  that  you  have?  "  gibed  Villier. 

"  None,  I  regret  to  say." 

The  lieutenant  proceeded  to  call  the  roll,  and 
although  five  of  the  six  Frenchmen  were  married, 
only  one  had  an  heir. 

"  Your  expression  seems  to  ask  '  Why,'  Monsieur 
Steele.  Perhaps  you  think,  as  there  are  plenty  to 
tell  you,  that  France  is  a  decadent,  a  dying  race.  It 
may  be  so,  although  when  History  writes  the  story 
of  the  last  four  years  I  imagine  that  such  will  not 
be  her  conclusion.  No,  the  trouble  is  that  we,  of 
the  upper  classes,  at  least,  are  too  selfish.  We  love 
our  comfort  and  luxury  too  much  to  imperil  it  by 
having  offspring." 


NOON  221 

"  Then  you  should  be  ashamed  of  yourselves,"  an- 
swered Daniel,  soberly.  Again  the  rest  laughed, 
with  the  same  exception,  but  the  adjutant  agreed, 
"  You  say  well.  We  should  be  ashamed,  and  unless 
France  has  a  change  of  heart  in  this  respect,  she 
will  perish,  and  be  one  with  Carthage  and  with 
Rome.  Look  at  the  broods  which  those  Boche 
breed,"  he  went  on,  passionately.  "  The  little  brats 
fairly  get  under  foot  at  every  side,  and  fifteen  or 
twenty  years  from  to-day  they  will  be  goose-step- 
ping toward  France,  just  as  their  fathers  did,  if  we 
do  not  take  a  lesson  from  their  book." 

"  Or  unless  the  proposed  League  of  Nations  is 
effective,"  supplemented  Daniel. 

Villier  shrugged,  expressing  the  growing  disap- 
pointment of  all  his  countrymen  in  the  way  things 
were  going  at  Paris.  "  It  is  a  beautiful  dream,  but  if 
France  is  to  dream  it,  she  will  do  well  to  sleep  with 
a  loaded  pistol  under  her  pillow  pointed  toward 
Germany.  By  the  way,"  he  added,  addressing  Jean, 
who  had  just  entered  with  plates  of  hors  d'ccuvres — 
sardines  fried  in  oil,  and  potato  salad,  "  speaking 
of  pistols,  I  cannot  find  that  Boche  Liiger  which  I 
took  from  the  German  Colonel  at  St.  Mihiel.  Do 
you  remember  packing  it  with  my  luggage, 
Harent?" 

"  No,  my  lieutenant,"  answered  the  orderly. 


222    THE  MAID  OF  MIRABELLE 

"  Well,  I  may  have  mislaid  it  myself,  but  I  should 
regret  losing  it,  for  it  is  not  only  the  sole  souvenir 
of  the  great  war  which  I  have  kept,  but  a  pretty 
weapon,  as  well." 

"  After  dejeuner  I  will  seek  for  it,  my  lieutenant." 

"  Very  well." 

The  meal  leisurely  progressed  from  the  hors 
d'ceuvres  to  beef  stew,  deliciously  tender,  then  to 
green  string  beans,  to  an  omelet,  and,  finally,  to  a 
big,  open-faced  tart  of  .Mirabelle  plums;  each  a 
separate  course  as  it  appeared  on  the  menu  that  the 
adjutant  chef  du  popote  had  written  out,  and  dec- 
orated with  a  water-color  sketch  —  which  would 
have  been  more  clever  if  he  had  not  copied  it  from 
La  Vie  Parisienne.  And,  as  one  course  followed 
another  around  the  table,  always  commencing  form- 
ally with  the  one  to  the  left  of  him  who  had  started 
the  preceding  on  its  journey,  the  light  wine,  and 
lighter  conversation,  flowed  on.  Daniel  partook  of 
none  of  the  former,  and  for  a  time  remained  rather 
moodily  a  stranger  to  the  latter,  as  well. 

But  an  end  was  put  to  his  somber  preoccupation, 
when  Villier  suddenly  disappeared  behind  his  nap- 
kin, to  reappear  with  a  watch  crystal  in  one  eye,  for 
a  monocle,  and  drawled  out  a  dialogue  between 
Baron  Someone,  and  Count  Somebody  Else,  during 
which  he  politely  inquired  of  himself  whether  he 


NOON  223 

had  wintered  at  Monte  Carlo  or  at  Nice  and  replied, 
"  Oh,  no,  my  dear  Baron,  I  spent  the  past  winter  in 
Mirabelle,  a  most  delightful  village  in  the  Vosges 
mountains,  ye  know." 

Daniel  had  to  join  the  others  in  laughter,  for 
Villier's  gaiety  was  irresistibly  infectious.  Then  he 
found  it  difficult  to  restrain  his  awakened  risibilities, 
when  there  commenced  a  sudden  violent  discussion 
over  the  mechanics  of  some  cannon  or  other  —  a 
subject  about  which  he  knew  absolutely  nothing  — 
and  the  serious-minded  adjutant,  who  talked  as 
vehemently  with  his  hands  as  with  his  tongue,  re- 
peatedly attempted  to  convey  a  forkful  of  beans  to 
his  awaiting  mouth,  only  each  time  to  be  interrupted 
with  a  question,  or  an  antagonistic  assertion,  and 
replace  them,  untouched. 

"  If  this  discussion  keeps  up  much  longer,  he'll 
be  in  imminent  danger  of  starving  to  death," 
thought  Daniel,  choking  in  an  effort  not  to  laugh. 
Fortunately  for  the  adjutant,  the  subject  gravitated 
to  the  never-failing  topic  of  conversation  at  all  such 
meetings  —  women  —  and  he  was  saved. 

As  usual,  it  was  the  volatile  lieutenant  who  took 
the  lead,  and  he  seized  the  occasion  when  Jean  was 
in  the  act  of  changing  courses,  to  demand  of  Dan- 
iel, "  How  goes  the  race  between  you  and  Harent, 
for  the  favor  of  '  the  Maid  of  Mirabelle,'  Mile. 


224    THE  MAID  OF  MIRABELLE 

Joan  ?  I  observe  that  when  she  is  not  with  one,  she 
is  pretty  sure  to  be  with  the  other." 

"  I  was  not  aware  that  there  was  any  race,"  an- 
swered the  American  briefly,  and  could  have  cursed 
himself,  for  he  felt  that  his  face  was  growing  red 
to  the  ears. 

"  Oh  ho,  I  see  that  my  shot  told.  It  is  fortunate 
for  me  that  I  leave  immediately,  for  I  should  hate 
to  choose  whether  I  would  act  as  second  for  my 
friend,  our  American  ally,  or  rriy  orderly  and  brother 
Frenchman,  or  even  take  sides  less  spectacularly  in 
this  pretty  comedy  of  rustic  love." 

Daniel  sent  a  hasty  glance  towards  Jean,  who 
stood  behind  the  lieutenant's  chair,  scowling  blackly, 
and,  with  a  hope  of  turning  the  subject  wholly  into 
a  jest,  he  said,  "If  we  were  rivals,  I  am  sure  that 
we  should  be  generous  ones.  To  tell  the  truth,  after 
what  you  said  to  me  on  the  evening  of  your  arrival 
here,  I  rather  thought  that  you  meant  to  enter  the 
field  also,  and  make  us  both  retire  into  the  back- 
ground, my  lieutenant." 

"  I  ?  Oh  no.  The  chase  would  not  be  sufficiently 
interesting;  for  although  Mile.  Joan  is  estimable, 
and  passing  fair,  I'm  afraid  that  she  lacks  the  essen- 
tial element  of  surprise  —  she  is  too  sweet  and 
simple  for  my  taste.  If  I  were  to  play  the  game  of 
hearts  here,  it  would  be  with  the  younger  sister, 


NOON  225 

Suzette.  There  is  a  merry  young  spitfire  for  you  — 
oh,  I  know  —  and  as  pretty  as  a  picture  and  capri- 
cious as  a  colt." 

Daniel  laughed  outright.  "  Suzette  is  all  of  that, 
but  she's  only  a  child." 

"  A  child  ?  She  tells  me  that  she  is  over  sixteen, 
and  she  is  therefore  just  ripe  to  pick,  for  a  woman  is 
like  a  cherry  —  all  the  more  delectable  for  having  a 
bit  of  the  tang  of  early  springtime  in  them.  I  don't 
like  them  too  mellow.  You  Americans  are  funny, 
but  I  understand  that  in  the  chilly  atmosphere  of 
your  country  the  girls  develop  more  slowly  than 
they  do  here." 

"  If  that  is  the  way  you  feel,  perhaps  I  am  just  as 
well  pleased  that  you  leave  Mirabelle  this  afternoon. 
I'm  very  fond  of  my  '  little  French  sister.'  But  I  do 
not  know  why  you  always  speak  of  us  Anglo-Saxons 
as  a  cold-blooded  race.  Any  one  would  think,  to 
hear  you,  that  we  have  no  hearts  at  all." 

"  Oh,  I  suppose  that  you  are  human,  under  the 
skin,  but,  if  so,  I  cannot  help  thinking  that  most 
of  you  are  hypocrites  in  a  way.  At  least  it  seems 
to  me  that  many  whom  I  have  met,  follow  the  advice 
of  the  English  dramatist,  Shakespeare,  and  '  assume 
a  virtue  though  they  have  it  not.' ' 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  that  ?  "  demanded  Dan- 
iel, instantly  bristling. 


226    THE  MAID  OF  MIRABELLE 

"  Well,  a  great  many  of  you  pretend  to  be  shocked 
and  disgusted  at  what  they  characterize  as  the  im- 
morality of  the  French,  and  yet  I  have  noticed  that 
they  —  I  don't  mean  you,  now  —  are  parties  to  the 
fall  of  man,  like  ourselves,  only  they  pretend  to 
ignore  the  fact,  or,  like  father  Adam,  blame  it  on 
the  woman.  Perhaps  I  am  wrongly  judging  all 
by  a  few,  which  I  have  found  to  be  a  common 
failing  with  humanity,  but  I  have  seen  enough  of 
life  to  conclude  that  mankind,  except  for  superficial 
characteristics,  is  pretty  much  alike,  the  world 
over. 

"  What  is  the  use  of  ignoring  the  fundamental 
facts  of  human  nature?  We  may  be  too  free,  in 
France,  but  at  least  we  face  them  fairly;  we  are 
honest  about  our  peccadillos.  All  men  are  bigamous 
by  nature,  anyway." 

"  No,  indeed  they  are  not,"  contradicted  the 
American,  with  feeling.  "  And  even  if  it  is  true 
that  some  of  our  race  are  hypocrites,  as  you  say,  is 
theirs  not  the  better  course?  Admitting  that  temp- 
tation exists,  is  it  not  preferable  to  endeavor  to 
cloak  that  fact  from  the  common  gaze,  rather  than 
to  flaunt  it  openly  for  all  to  see;  especially  the 
young  ?  " 

"  That  is  one  way  of  looking  at  it,  of  course. 
But  do  not  forget  the  time-worn  saying  that  famil- 


NOON  227 

iarity  breeds  contempt.  Besides,  curiosity  concern- 
ing hidden  things  is  a  mighty  moving  force." 

"  Granted.  But  I  guess  that  our  conventions  are 
utterly  opposed." 

"  And  it  is  always  hard  to  see  the  other  man's 
point  of  view  clearly  and  dispassionately.  Racial  or 
individual  prejudice  holds  a  cloudy  glass  before  our 
eyes.  However,  try  not  to  be  too  hard  on  France ; 
we  are  a  hot-blooded  race,  our  traditional  religion 
makes  repentance  easy  and,  well,  it  is  the  custom  of 
the  country. 

"  But  enough  of  controversy  for  the  present,  my 
American  friend,  for  I  leave  in  an  hour.  You  must 
visit  me  in  Paris  —  here's  my  address  ..."  he 
scribbled  it  on  a  piece  of  paper  ..."  and  we  will 
renew  the  battle  there,  always  '  generous  rivals  '  — 
to  quote  your  own  words." 

Cigarettes  were  now  alight,  and  the  room  grew 
hotter  and  more  stuffy.  The  table  had  been  cleared, 
and  fresh  glasses  set  at  each  place.  One  of  the  offi- 
cers was  at  the  battered  piano,  singing  "  Madelon," 
and  accompanying  himself  with  octaves  in  the  upper 
register,  and  a  monotonous,  unvaried  chord  in  the 
lower,  which  occasionally  harmonized,  but  generally 
did  not.  Daniel  writhed  inwardly,  for,  although  he 
was  not  a  musician,  he  had,  in  common  with  most 
Americans,  an  innate  appreciation  of  it. 


228    THE  MAID  OF  MIRABELLE 

"  The  piano  is  pretty  badly  out  of  tune,"  remarked 
Villier,  with  a  wink  at  Daniel.  "  When  we  arrived, 
I  tried  to  tune  it  myself,  but  as  the  only  implement 
available  was  a  big  monkey  wrench,  and  as  Madame 
was  singing  one  melody  in  the  next  room,  Jean 
whistling  another  in  the  kitchen,  and  little  Pierre, 
at  my  elbow,  trying  to  hum  the  note  I  happened  to 
be  sounding,  it  was  not  altogether  a  success." 

Jean  entered  with  two  tall  bottles  of  champagne, 
and  filled  the  glasses.  The  singer  broke  off  to  re- 
sume his  place  at  the  table. 

"  Come,  now ;  a  toast,"  cried  the  lieutenant.  "  To 
Marshal  Foch,  a  worthy  generalissimo  of  valiant 
armies." 

They  drank  .it  standing.  Daniel  found  himself 
on  his  feet,  with  his  glass  lifted,  but  he  set  it  down, 
untasted,  and  his  act  passed  unobserved  in  the 
cheers. 

The  hilarity  grew  apace;  other  toasts  were  pro- 
posed, and  drunk,  and  it  was  not  long  before  his 
continued  abstinence  began  to  draw  laughing  gibes 
upon  him,  together  with  more  and  more  insistent 
demands  that  he  drink.  And,  as  the  headier  wine 
began  to  make  its  effect  felt,  some  of  the  party  dis- 
played a  little  ill-temper  at  his  reiterated  smiling 
refusals,  and  patient  explanations. 

Daniel  felt  himself  commencing  to  grow  hot  in- 


NOON  229 

side,  and  decidedly  uncomfortable.  His  earlier 
forebodings  were  being  justified,  and  he  realized 
that  he  would  much  better  have  sent  some  excuse 
for  failing  to  accept  the  invitation.  Physical  dis- 
comfort was  added  to  the  mental,  for  Jean  had  re- 
moved the  carafe  of  water  which  had  been  placed 
on  the  table,  as  a  concession  to  him,  and  his  throat 
and  mouth  were  becoming  parched,  in  the  close*,  hot 
atmosphere,  while  the  sight  of  the  bubbling  liquid 
made  his  thirst  more  acute. 

Twice  he  started  to  stand  up,  and  began  a  halting 
sentence  to  the  effect  that  he  was  obliged  to  depart, 
and  twice  boisterous  hands  forced  him  back  into  his 
chair. 

There  is  some  hospitality  from  which  no  escape 
seems  possible,  and  Daniel  realized  that  he  was  vir- 
tually a  prisoner  in  the  hands  of  his  friends.  It 
made  him  half-angry,  but  he  finally  yielded  to  neces- 
sity, and  settled  back  to  enjoy  the  increasing  merri- 
ment, in  as  far  as  he  could,  although  the  stories 
which  had  begun  to  go  around  the  table,  shamed  and 
disgusted  him,  especially  when  the  owner  of  the 
house,  and  his  attractive  young  wife,  were  sum- 
moned in  to  drink  a  health  to  their  departing  lodger. 

At  length  Villier  glanced  at  his  wrist  watch, 
started,  and  announced  that  he  must  leave  at  once 
to  finish  his  preparations  for  the  return  to  civil  life. 


230    THE  MAID  OF  MIRABELLE 

He  stood  up,  a  little  unsteadily,  leaned  his  hand  on 
Daniel's  shoulder,  and  raised  his  glass,  with  the 
words,  "  To  the  United  States  of  America  —  Friend 
of  France  for  a  hundred  years,  and  her  best  com- 
panion in  the  struggle  against  her  worst  enemy." 

With  a  united  shout  the  others  arose,  pulling 
Daniel  with  them,  and  they  looked  at  him  with  eager 
expectancy.  The  words  had  stirred  him  strongly, 
for  patriotism  was  a  passion  with  him,  and  for  the 
first  time  in  his  life  the  prohibition  against  strong 
wine  lay  heavy  on  his  heart  He  wanted  to  drink, 
and  drink  deep  —  not  for  the  liquor's  sake,  but  be- 
cause of  the  toast.  Still,  the  life-long  inhibition 
proved  powerful,  and  he  shook  his  head.  On  more 
than  one  lip  there  was  a  sneer,  which  goaded  him 
into  saying,  "  I  thank  you,  but  this  time  I  stand  for 
America.  It  is  like  a  toast  to  me,  and  so  I  should 
not  join  in  drinking  it." 

The  rest  drained  their  glasses,  and  Jean  promptly 
refilled  them. 

Then  Villier  spoke  again.  "  I  must  go,  but  there 
is  one  more  —  perhaps  the  last  that  I  shall  ever 
drink  in  uniform.  Messieurs  —  to  France!" 

Every  eye  was  turned  on  Daniel.  The  single 
word  had  seemed  to  cause  his  oft-tried  will  to  snap, 
like  a  frayed  strand.  He  vaguely  realized  that  if  he 
waited  even  an  instant,  his  conscience  would  re- 


NOON  231 

assert  itself  and  save  him  —  and  he  knew  that  he 
wanted  to  yield,  just  once. 

"  I'll  drink  that/'  he  cried,  raising  his  glass  high. 

There  was  a  shout  of  approbation,  and  Villier 
clapped  him  on  the  back.  The  glasses  flashed. 
"  '  Bottoms  up/  as  our  American  friends  say,"  called 
the  lieutenant.  Daniel  placed  his  to  his  lips,  and 
shut  his  eyes  and  deafened  his  ears  to  the  command 
of  his  true  self.  He  drank.  The  effervescing  wine 
strangled  him;  it  seemed  to  fill  his  whole  head  and 
nose,  tears  came  to  his  eyes,  and  he  sneezed  and 
sputtered,  while  the  others  burst  into  loud  merri- 
ment. 

"  Look,  he  drank  nearly  a  teaspoonful,"  ex- 
claimed Villier,  as  he  pointed  to  the  glass  which 
Daniel  hastily  set  down.  "  Well  done,  friend. 
There  is  hope  for  thee,  yet.  I  go,  but  I  must  bid 
thee  adieu  in  the  real  French  fashion."  He  sud- 
denly drew  the  American  to  him  by  both  shoulders, 
and  kissed  him  first  on  one  cheek,  then  on  the  other. 

The  lieutenant  was  immediately  surrounded  by 
his  comrades,  and  under  cover  of  the  flow  of  words, 
Daniel  slipped  from  the  room,  filled  with  sudden 
shame. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

AFTERNOON 

THE  sun  was  beginning  to  sink  behind  Mirabelle, 
and  Daniel  and  Joan  walked  on  soft  purple  shadows 
until  they  reached  the  bridge  of  gray  stone  over  the 
Moselle,  but  then  the  fields  before  them  were  flooded 
with  golden  light,  rich  and  warm,  and  bright  with 
new  green ;  and  every  red-brown  rock  and  tree  on  the 
side  of  the  steep  hill  which  they  were  to  climb,  stood 
forth  in  sharp  relief.  The  young  grass  was  soft  and 
yielding  under  their  feet,  as  they  struck  obliquely 
across  the  meadow  land,  and  it  was  dotted  with  tiny 
white  daisies,  blood-red  poppies  half  unfolded,  and 
blue  corn-flowers.  In  spots,  patches  of  all  three 
came  together  so  symmetrically  that  the  man  im- 
agined Nature  had  purposely  decorated  the  valiant 
fields  with  the  victorious  tricolore  of  France.  Here 
and  there  Joan  paused  to  peek  under  a  tuft  of  tall 
grass,  or  a  turned-up  hummock  of  damp  earth,  and 
point  out,  with  exclamations  of  delight,  tiny  clumps 
of  purple  or  white  violets,  in  bashful  hiding. 

232 


AFTERNOON  233 

Behind  them,  the  church  bells  began  to  chime  for 
Vespers,  and  their  melodious  sound,  floating  through 
the  still  air,  carried  the  man's  mind  instinctively  back 
home  to  the  Sabbath  quiet  of  his  native  village,  the 
small  gray  meeting-house,  filled  with  its  silent  wor- 
shippers —  the  hatted  men  all  on  one  side,  and  the 
gentle  gray-appareled  womenfolk  on  the  other. 

The  air  was  soft  and  warm  —  unusually  so  for 
early  spring  in  the  Vosges  —  and  by  the  time  the 
two  had  toiled  up  the  steep  and  narrow  path,  which 
turned  abruptly  many  times  before  it  arrived  at  the 
top  of  the  hill,  Daniel  was  aglow  and  breathing 
fast,  for  during  the  climb  he  had  lent  his  hand  to 
the  girl,  who  had  accepted  it,  although  by  no  means 
in  need  of  any  assistance. 

Then  the  cool  dark  shade  of  the  ancient  trees 
enfolded  them,  and  shut  from  sight  the  world  of 
men  below. 

Now  Joan  took  the  lead,  and  made  her  way  over 
moss-covered  boulders,  which  Nature  had  placed 
there,  and  hewn  stones,  which  men  had  erected  for 
a  habitation  and  other  men  had  overthrown  in  their 
wrath,  until  they  came  to  the  spot  which  she  had 
christened  her  own.  Part  of  a  fallen  wall,  thick 
with  ivy,  protected  it  from  the  wind,  which  here  had 
a  hint  of  winter  chill  in  it;  a  mossy  bank  made  a 
natural  seat;  the  foliage  of  two  towering  trees 


234    THE  MAID  OF  MIRABELLE 

formed  a  canopy  overhead  —  dark  green  interwoven 
with  threads  of  golden  sunshine;  while  vistas 
through  the  wood  disclosed  distant  glimpses  of  the 
sunlit  valley  below,  with  the  Moselle  winding  and 
glinting  through  it. 

They  had  conversed  but  little  during  the  walk 
thither,  for  the  voices  of  awakening  Nature  had 
filled  their  ears.  And  now  the  peace  and  beauty  of 
the  place  was  sufficient  to  keep  them  silent.  The 
girl  seated  herself,  with  a  faint  sigh,  leaned  for- 
ward and  rested  her  chin  in  one  cupped  palm.  Dan- 
iel dropped  at  her  feet,  momentarily  closing  his  eyes 
in  complete  relaxation.  For  the  first  time,  he 
realized  how  exceedingly  weary  he  really  was ;  phys- 
ically weary  from  the  unceasing  labor  in  which  he 
had  sought  forgetfulness,  to  find  it  only  occasion- 
ally; mentally  weary  of  struggling  against  the 
thing  which  had  taken  possession  of  him.  Even 
now  the  questionings  of  his  heart  would  not  be 
silenced. 

Faith  was  far  away;  so  very  far  away  that  his 
memory  of  her  had  become  almost  vague,  like  that 
of  a  pleasant  dream.  Of  course  he  was  fond  of  her, 
loved  her  still,  there  was  not  the  faintest  doubt  of 
this  in  his  heart,  but  he  decided  that,  after  all,  his 
affection  was  that  of  a  brother  for  a  sister.  Had  it 
really  been  anything  else  ?  Suddenly  he  found  him- 


AFTERNOON  235 

self  ardently  wishing  that  he  had  waited  to  hear, 
from  her  own  lips,  the  word  which  had  bound  him 
to  her,  that  he  might  have  held  her  close  in  his  arms 
as  lover,  if  only  for  a  moment.  "  Then,"  he  whis- 
pered to  himself,  "  I  might  have  had  another,  and  a 
stronger  memory  to  carry  with  me  always,  and  it 
might  suffice  to  .  .  .  '  He  did  not  finish  the 
thought. 

Daniel  opened  his  eyes,  and  looked  up  at  Joan. 
Her  gaze  was  far  off  on  the  sunlit  plain,  and  it  was 
dreamy  and  tempting.  Her  slightly  parted  lips,  red 
with  youth,  and  the  beautiful  color  in  her  cheeks 
were  both  tempting,  too.  His  heart  leaped  at  the 
sight,  as  it  had  many  times  before.  There  was  no 
need  for  him  to  try  to  analyze  his  feelings  for  her. 
He  knew  that  he  loved  her,  and  at  last  he  faced  the 
undeniable  fact  squarely. 

His  arms  yearned  to  take  her.  She  was  there, 
close  beside  him,  lovely  of  form  and  face ;  spiritually 
congenial;  mentally  alert,  even  though  her  formal 
education  had  been  a  limited  one;  physically  pulsing 
with  life;  altogether  desirable.  And  she  cared  for 
him.  He  knew  it  beyond  doubt,  and  he  felt  that  he 
might  easily,  if  he  willed  to  do  so,  turn  her  simple 
affection  into  the  broader,  deeper  channel  of  love. 
He  might  at  that  moment  claim  her  as  his  own,  if 
he  would. 


236    THE  MAID  OF  MIRABELLE 

The  thought  staggered  him.  A  choice  upon  which 
would  depend  the  course  of  two  lives  —  perhaps 
three  —  was  within  his  grasp  to  make  or  to  re- 
linquish. He  vaguely  realized  the  dangers  which 
might  attend  the  choice,  if  he  were  to  follow  the 
simple  dictates  of  his  heart ;  she  might  not  be  happy 
in  America,  and  he  could  not  remain  in  France ;  she 
was  not  of  his  people,  not  of  his  kind.  The  visions, 
first  of  Faith,  to  whom  he  had  plighted  his  word, 
and  then  of  Jean,  to  whom  he  had  pledged  his 
friendship,  passed  before  his  mind's  eye.  "  Per- 
haps Joan  loves  him,"  he  thought,  with  a  jealous 
pang,  "  but  even  if  she  does,  I  know  that  I  can  win 
her  for  myself.  It  might  not  be  fair,  but  what  does 
that  count  compared  with  love?  And  I  love  her." 
It  was  the  primal  nature,  male  arrayed  against  male 
for  the  possession  of  a  mate,  who  should  later  be 
mastered,  that  now  spoke  within  him. 

The  inner  struggle  had  made  his  whole  body 
rigid,  and  caused  his  strong  face,  now  lean  and 
worn,  to  set  in  severe  lines. 

Joan's  soft  voice  broke  into  his  thoughts.  "  Thou 
art  very  weary,  then,  Daniel?  Here,  lean  against 
my  knees,  and  I  will  rub  thy  forehead."  She  drew 
him  against  her,  and  began  to  run  her  fingers  slowly 
through  his  damp,  tangled  hair.  The  sensation  was 
one  of  infinite  caress.  Her  other  hand  lay  at  her 


1  AFTERNOON  237 

side,  and  he  reached  back  and  clasped  it,  nor  did  she 
make  any  effort  to  withdraw  it. 

"  Thou  must  rest,  for  it  is  very  peaceful  and  quiet 
here,  while  to-morrow  the  hard  work  begins  again. 
Listen !  "  A  lark  had  commenced  a  madly  thrilling 
melody,  high  in  the  air  above  them.  They  could 
not  see  the  bird,  but  its  liquid  notes  filled  the  wood, 
and  seemed  to  set  the  new  leaves  quivering  with 
delight. 

"  It  is  a  love  song,  I  think,"  whispered  the  girl, 
"  for  it  is  now  the  mating  season."  Daniel  turned 
his  head,  and  looked  up  at  her  again.  There  was  an 
expression  in  her  dark  eyes  that  was  unmistakable, 
and,  not  knowing  that  it  had  been  called  into  being 
by  thoughts  of  another,  it  stirred  him  deeply.  She 
glanced  down  and  met  his  look  with  a  tender  smile, 
then  abruptly  bent  over,  and  gave  his  forehead  a 
light  kiss. 

The  kiss  was  the  electric  spark  which  started  the 
charged  dynamo  of  his  heart  into  swift  action.  He 
sprang  up,  drawing  her  with  him,  and  cried,  "  Don't, 
don't  do  that,  Joan,  unless  .  .  .  * 

"  But  why  ?  "  she  asked,  a  little  frightened  by  the 
look  on  his  set  face.  "  Truly,  I  meant  no  harm. 
Was  it  wrong,  Monsieur  ?  Are  we  not  dear  pals  — 
like  a  brother  and  sister  to  one  another?  " 

"  No,  we  are  not  pals.    I  do  not  want  to  play  at 


238    THE  MAID  OF  MIRABELLE 

being  comrades  any  longer.  Don't  you  know  that  I 
love  you,  Joan  —  love  you  with  all  that  is  in  me, 
want  you  to  be  my  wife?  "  He  drew  her  passion- 
ately to  him  in  a  powerful  embrace  and  kissed  her 
cheek  and  her  lips  again  and  again,  until,  panting 
and  disheveled,  she  succeeded  in  twisting  free  and 
pushing  him  away  to  the  full  length  of  her  own 
strong  arms.  Her  eyes  were  very  wide,  and  held 
an  expression  half  troubled,  half  terrified. 

"  Monsieur  Steele,  what  is  it  that  you  are  saying? 
You  do  not  love  me  like  that.  You  cannot." 

"  Why  can  I  not  ?    I  do.    I  want  you,  Joan." 

He  stepped  towards  her  again,  but  she  eluded  him. 
"  No,  no.  I  will  not  have  it  so,  Monsieur.  I  have 
been  so  happy  in  our  dear  friendship  —  you  have 
meant  so  much  to  me  since  Henri  went,  and  .  .  . 
Oh,  I  do  not  want  to  hear  you  say  those  words. 
Besides,  there  is  ...  there  is  the  girl  whose  photo- 
graph you  carry  with  you  always.  Is  she  not  really 
the  one  whom  you  love?  A  man  does  not  carry  a 
picture  next  his  heart,  unless  .  .  .  '  She  stopped, 
surprised  to  find  herself  mechanically  repeating  the 
accusation  at  which  she  had  herself  scoffed  that 
morning. 

"  Who  says  so  ?  "  demanded  Daniel,  hotly. 

"  Monsieur  Jean." 

"  He  lies."     The  words   sprang   from   Daniel's 


AFTERNOON  239 

lips,  spoken  not  by  himself,  but  the  power  which  had 
seized  upon  him,  and  although  the  shock  of  hearing 
himself  utter  them  brought  to  his  subconscious  mind 
the  story  of  Peter  in  the  judgment  hall,  he  was 
past  caring.  "Is  it  then  that  you  love  him?"  he 
cried  passionately. 

"I  .  .  .  I  do  not  know.  I  cannot  tell  you,"  an- 
swered the  girl.  Suddenly  she  covered  her  face 
with  both  hands  to  hide  the  blushes,  then  turned, 
and  ran  as  fast  as  sh^  could  in  her  wooden  shoes, 
out  of  sight  among  the  trees.  Daniel  took  one  step 
in  pursuit,  stopped,  and  stood  rigid,  dazed  at  the 
suddenness  of  her  flight,  and  the  realization  that  his 
dream  was  ended. 

There  was  the  sound  of  a  branch  snapping  be- 
neath her  feet,  and  of  a  partial  stumble,  and  again 
he  started  forward  with  renewed  intention  to  give 
chase,  to  overtake  her  and  hold  her  close  once  more, 
to  kiss  her,  and  make  her  yield  her  love  to  him.  His 
senses  were  in  such  a  turmoil  of  mad  desire  as  he 
had  never  before  even  conceived  of.  But  something 
—  a  brief  gleam  of  the  clear,  calm  light  of  reason 
breaking  through  the  lurid  clouds  of  passion  —  pre- 
vented him.  Slowly  his  brain  cleared,  and  he  faced 
the  knowledge  that  he  had  lost  —  or  been  saved. 
Then  came  remorse,  shame. 

He  dropped  on  the  bank  where  Joan  had  sat,  and 


240    THE  MAID  OF  MIRABELLE 

buried  his  head  in  his  hands.  It  was  aching  dully, 
and  there  was  another  ache  in  his  heart. 

Perhaps  his  first  coherent  thought  was  that  he 
had  been  a  fool,  a  blind,  egotistical  fool  to  have 
believed  that  the  girl  was  his  for  the  asking,  rather 
than  another's.  He  could  not  even  hug  to  his  breast 
the  slight  comfort  that  he  was  not  solely  to  blame 
for  his  obsession.  For  he  knew  that  Joan  had  never 
once  encouraged  him  in  it,  and  that  he  had  himself 
paved  the  way  for  her  natural  display  of  frank  and 
sisterly  affection,  He  had  misled  her,  by  both  his 
words  and  behavior.  The  thought  brought  self- 
reproach,  keen  and  humiliating.  Disjointed  sen- 
tences out  of  the  past  drifted  into  his  mind,  like  bits 
of  flotsam  on  a  troubled  sea ;  the  simple  words  of  the 
girl  at  home,  "  You  will  be  true,  true  to  thy  faith  ?  " 
and  his  reply;  Lieutenant  Villier's  jest  about  the  need 
which  he  would  have  to  keep  a  tight  check-rein  on 
his  heart  if  ever  he  met  a  real  French  girl;  the 
familiar  quotation  "  as  true  as  steel,"  which  he  had 
once  regarded  in  the  light  of  a  personal  motto. 

Daniel  could  not,  and  did  not,  try  to  deny  that  he 
had  actually  loved  Joan,  or  that  he  still  loved  her, 
but  he  now  saw  the  truth  clearly,  and  knew  that 
this  love  was  in  the  main  a  purely  primitive  physical 
instinct,  with  little  that  was  sacrificial  and  ennobling 
about  it.  In  contrast  to  it  he  remembered,  with  a 


AFTERNOON  241 

bitter  pang,  his  feelings  toward  Faith  on  that  night, 
which  seemed  ages  past,  —  how  he  had  so  longed 
to  guard  and  protect  her.  And  with  the  recollection 
came  the  strange  realization  that  he  still  felt  toward 
Faith  just  as  he  had  on  that  long  ago  evening. 

"  Is  it  true,  then,  as  Villier  declared,  that  all  men 
are  polygamous  by  nature?  "  he  demanded  of  him- 
self. "  Can  a  man  truly  love  two  women  at  the  same 
time,  although,  perhaps,  in  different  ways  ? " 
Daniel  had,  for  a  long  time,  felt  in  his  heart 
that  he  possessed  a  deeper  conception  of  life, 
and  that  his  knowledge  was  broader,  and 
his  judgement  therefore  more  lenient,  than 
those  of  most  of  the  strict  sect  to  which  he  be- 
longed. Now  his  eyes  had  been  opened  by  the  great 
teacher  —  Experience  —  and  he  realized  how  little 
he  had  actually  known  of  human  temptation,  and 
human  weakness.  It  made  him  feel  strangely  help- 
less —  like  a  leaf  which  had  been  torn  loose  from  its 
familiar  place,  and  made  the  plaything  of  the  pas- 
sionate winds.  "  And  I  used  to  think  that  I  had  my 
full  share  of  self-control  and  will  power,"  he 
thought,  disgustedly,  and  then  found  himself  saying 
aloud,  "  What  am  I,  that  I  should  condemn  thee?  " 
for  he  felt  as  though  there  were  present  with  him, 
in  spirit,  all  the  others  of  all  the  ages,  who  had  been 
similarly  tempted,  and  yielded  to  their  temptation. 


242    THE  MAID  OF  MIRABELLE 

A  revulsion  came  over  him,  and  brought  a  new 
and  stronger  idea.  In  thus  seeking  an  explanation 
for  his  behavior  he  was  merely  condoning  it ;  he  was 
like  a  child  who,  having  stumbled,  lay  where  he  had 
fallen,  weeping  and  pitying  himself,  instead  of  get- 
ting up.  Suppose  it  were  true  that  man  could  love 
and  desire  more  than  one  woman,  was  that  not  all 
the  more  reason  for  the  establishment  of  an  ideal 
of  steadfast  faith  toward  one,  if  he  were  to  achieve 
a  destiny  higher  than  the  beasts'?  And  if  some 
were  by  nature  more  strongly  subject  to  temptation 
than  others,  as  his  foster-father  had  hinted,  was  it 
not  incumbent  upon  them  to  face  that  fact  fairly, 
and  struggle  against  that  temptation  all  the  more 
stubbornly?  He  had  failed,  but  he  realized  that, 
although  one  failure  is  a  sign  of  weakness,  it  may 
be  made  a  source  of  strength;  for  forewarned  is 
forearmed.  He  could  almost  feel  the  fibers  of  his 
moral  nature  —  which  had  been  loosened  by  the 
fingers  of  the  tempter  within  during  many  weeks, 
and  that  afternoon  torn  to  shreds  —  knitting  to- 
gether again,  stronger  than  before,  like  a  rope  which 
has  been  broken  and  spliced. 

Yes,  he  knew  that  he  was  stronger  for  his  ex- 
perience. But  what  would  the  Elder,  whose  life  had 
been  lived  throughout  within  the  letter  and  the  spirit 
of  the  law,  and  what  would  his  pure-in-heart  wife 


AFTERNOON  243 

say,  if  they  should  ever  know  the  manner  of  thing 
that  had  befallen  him?  What  would  Faith,  herself, 
think? 

Joan  was  not  for  him,  could  never  be  his,  and 
although  he  cared  for  her  no  less  than  before,  he 
had  at  last  conquered  desire ;  but  at  home  the  other 
girl  was  awaiting  his  return,  and  loving  him  stead- 
fastly —  never  for  a  moment  did  he  doubt  that.  If 
he  confessed  the  past  to  her,  the  comfort  of  that 
love  might  also  be  taken  away,  and,  on  the  moment, 
it  seemed  more  desirable  than  ever  it  had  before. 
Like  a  light  within  a  quiet  haven,  as  he  had  once 
characterized  it,  her  affection  seemed  to  shine 
through  the  present  darkness,  beckoning,  beckoning. 
And  he  had  madly  built  a  barrier  against  himself 
across  the  harbor's  entrance. 

"  I  might  go  back  and  claim  her,  as  though  this 
afternoon  had  never  happened,"  he  thought.  "  But 
pray  God  that  I  am  man  enough  now  not  to  do  that. 
No,  I  shall  go  back,  after  my  work  here  is  finished, 
but  it  will  be  to  tell  her  the  truth,  and  then  she  will 
know  what  manner  of  man  I  have  been  at  heart, 
and  will  turn  away  from  me.  She  could  do  nothing 
else,  arid  keep  her  self-respect,  trained  as  she  has 
been.  Villier  would  say  that  I  am  a  fool,  but  at 
least  I  am  not  going  to  be  a  coward. 


244   THE  MAID  OF  MIRABELLE 

"  But  how  can  I  now  go  back  to  Mirabelle  to 
live?" 

He  paused,  and  then  with  set  jaw  and  clenched 
hands,  added  aloud,  "  Yes,  I  will  do  that,  too,  if 
Joan  will  forgive  me.  I'll  learn  to  live  up  to  her 
belief  in  me,  and  become  the  real  pal  which  I  have 
pretended  to  be." 

With  new  resolution  and  a  deeper  calm  bred  of  it, 
Daniel  arose.  Heavy  shadows  enclosed  him,  as 
though  nature  were  reflecting  the  mood  which  had 
been  his,  and,  as  he  started  down  the  hillside  toward 
Mirabelle,  the  prophecy  of  old  Barbette  re-echoed 
in  his  mind,  and  he  found  himself  laughing  aloud, 
bitterly.  "  The  old  witch  was  right,  after  all,"  he 
said. 

But  he  did  not  yet  know  how  fully  right  she  had 
been! 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

EVENING 

APRIL  weather  is  as  subject  to  moods  in  North- 
eastern France  as  it  is  in  New  England,  and,  before 
Daniel's  struggle  with  self  was  ended,  swiftly 
gathered  clouds  had  hastened  the  long  twilight  into 
a  darkness  almost  as  black  as  the  pit,  within  the 
woods.  The  rising  wind  sighed  in  minor  cadences 
through  the  restless  branches  overhead,  and  a  bird, 
that  had  been  unduly  hurried  to  its  nest,  repeated  a 
plaintive  call.  The  man  had  never  known  real  fear, 
but  the  spirit  of  the  place,  with  its  dead  ruins,  be- 
gan to  play  upon  his  already  overwrought  nerves, 
and  they  quivered  in  unison  with  nature.  A  spatter 
of  cold  rain,  from  a  passing  shower,  struck  upon  his 
face  and  caused  him  to  start  so  sharply  that  he 
laughed  aloud  at  himself.  Although  his  voice  rang 
hollow  and  unnatural  on  his  ears,  the  sound  of  it 
braced  him ;  but  he  was  glad  to  find  himself  at  last 
free  from  the  sobbing  forest,  and  at  the  top  of  the 

245 


246    THE  MAID  OF  MIRABELLE 

narrow  path  down  the  hillside.  He  had  to  descend 
it  cautiously,  for  the  way  was  steep  and  tortuous, 
but  he  instinctively  clung  close  to  the  natural  bank, 
or  man-built  wall  on  the  inner  side,  and  his  mind 
was  free  to  continue  the  reflections  to  which  it  was 
the  prey.  Over  and  over  he  re-acted,  in  memory, 
the  events  of  the  afternoon,  and  registered  the 
thoughts  which  had  been  his  during  them,  and  after- 
wards when  he  was  alone,  until  his  heart  cried  out  in 
rebellion,  "  Am  I  not  facing  a  punishment  bitter 
enough,  without  being  tormented  like  this  ?  " 

Daniel  was  thankful  to  reach  the  foot  of  the  hill 
and  the  village  street,  and  since  it  was  now  far  too 
dark  for  him  to  take  the  short  cut  across  the  fields, 
he  turned  down  the  road,  and  was  soon  where  the 
lights  from  peaceful  homes  shone  on  either  side  of 
him.  His  mind  could  not  but  reflect  a  little  of  the 
cheerfulness  which  they  sent  forth,  and  he  walked 
on,  with  brisker  step  and  lifted  head,  until  he  came 
opposite  a  corner  cafe,  from  within  which  sounded 
the  merry  clink  of  glasses,  and  many  soldier  voices 
in  boisterous  song  and  laughter. 

"  Remember  the  Sabbath  day  to  keep  it  holy,"  his 
mind  quoted.  "  It  is  the  custom  of  the  country; 
they  see  no  wrong  in  it,  and,  therefore,  they  are  not 
sinning  —  but  truly  their  ways  are  not  like  ours." 

One  voice,  raised  for  a  moment  above  the  rest, 


EVENING  247 


struck  on  his  ears  and  caused  him  to  stop  instinc- 
tively. It  had  sounded  a  little  like  that  of  Jean,  al- 
though he  realized  the  next  instant  that  it  was 
probably  not  his,  but  the  old  jealousy  flared  for  a 
moment  in  his  heart,  and  then  turned  to  ashes. 
"  That  is  all  over  now,"  he  whispered.  "  Jean  was 
my  friend,  and  he  will  be  again.  Besides,  he  de- 
serves her;  I  never  did." 

Calmer,  now  that  his  renunciation  was  complete, 
he  turned  into  the  road  which  led  past  the  little 
station,  through  the  fields,  and  across  the  river  to 
Mirabelle. 

The  wind  had  died  down  and  the  brief  shower 
passed,  as  abruptly  as  they  had  come  up,  but  the 
darkness  was  so  intense  that  he  could  keep  to  his 
pathway  only  by  looking  upward,  and  guiding  his 
course  by  the  scarcely  discernible  forms  of  the  trees 
that  lined  the  road  at  intervals  oh  either  side. 

The  noise  of  the  rushing  river  grew  louder,  and 
at  length  his  eye  caught  a  vague  reflection  from  it, 
for,  while  any  light  remains  at  all,  water  seems  to 
catch,  and  intensify  it.  He  recognized  the  dim  out- 
lines of  the  canal,  barely  showing  for  a  few  feet,  and 
then  vanishing  utterly,  and  walked  more  cautiously, 
for  he  knew  that  the  sides  of  the  roadway  dropped 
precipitously  down  to  the  tow-path  on  either  side  of 
the  little  bridge,  with  no  protecting  rail. 


248    THE  MAID  OF  MIRABELLE 

Suddenly  he  stopped  altogether.  The  night  air 
had  seemed  to  bring  a  whisper  of  voices  from  be- 
low him,  and  not  far  distant  —  one  a  man's,  the 
other  a  woman's.  For  an  instant  he  stood  immov- 
able; then,  concluding  that  it  was  merely  the  tryst 
of  two  village  lovers,  he  was  about  to  move  on,  when 
the  whispering  was  augmented  by  the  unmistakable 
sound  of  a  scuffle,  and  then,  clear  and  high,  a 
frightened  voice  crying,  "  No,  no,  I  cannot,  I  will 
not.  Let  me  go,  let  me  go  home."  Almost  in- 
stantly a  frightened  scream  pierced  the  still  air, 
and  another,  and  another. 

Daniel's  heart  stopped  dead,  and  then  began  to 
pound  furiously.  For  he  felt  that  the  voice  was, 
beyond  the  possibility  of  a  doubt,  one  that  he  knew 
and  had  learned  to  love  —  the  voice  of  Joan ! 

With  an  inarticulate  shout,  he  plunged  down  the 
steep  bank,  scrambling  and  sliding;  picked  himself 
up,  and  raced  forward,  mad  with  rage  and  fear. 
Almost  before  he  knew  it,  he  had  charged  headlong 
against  the  form  of  a  man,  and  grappled  with  him; 
and  at  the  same  instant  he  was  conscious  that 
another  figure  had  fled  past  him,  sobbing  uncon- 
trolledly.  Her  skirts  brushed  his  legs,  and,  even  in 
his  rage,  he  could  feel  an  overwhelming  sense  of  re- 
lief, for  he  had  saved  her,  and  so  in  part  expiated  his 
fault.  Then  that  feeling  vanished,  swallowed  up  in 


EVENING  249 


one  burning,  red  desire  to  punish  the  man,  who- 
ever he  might  be. 

His  powerful  hands  felt  their  way  upward  from 
the  arms  upon  which  they  had  fastened  themselves, 
to  the  man's  throat.  They  closed  upon  it,  tighter, 
tighter.  The  other  —  still  unseen  —  was  struggling 
furiously,  tearing  at  those  gripping  fingers,  and 
beating  Daniel  on  the  face  and  body.  But  he  held 
on,  grimly,  and  strengthened  the  choking  pressure. 
The  blows  meant  nothing  to  him ;  his  own  muscular 
action  became  almost  automatic,  and  his  brain,  al- 
though singularly  active,  did  not  register  present 
impressions,  but  was  flooded  with  disjointed 
thoughts  out  of  the  past.  Now  it  repeated  old  Bar- 
bette's words,  "  Beware  lest  you  also  dip  your 
hands  in  blood ;  "  now  the  words  of  the  sixth  com- 
mandment, "  Thou  shalt  not  kill."  Daniel  laughed 
aloud,  and  tightened  his  grip. 

The  other's  hands  had  ceased  to  strike  at  him.  He 
had  sunk  to  his  knees. 

Then  the  American's  eyes  were  filled  with  the 
light  of  a  dazzling  flash,  which  disclosed  the  face 
of  his  opponent;  his  chest  received  a  crushing, 
burning  blow.  He  had  been  shot !  The  realization 
astonished  him,  more  than  anything  else,  but,  al- 
though a  tearing  ache  began  in  his  breast,  he  did  not 
relinquish  the  grip  on  the  other's  throat. 


250    THE  MAID  OF  MIRABELLE 

Then  came  a  crashing  blow  against  his  temple, 
a  myriad  of  flashing  lights,  and  oblivion. 

There  were  calls,  and  shouted  inquiries  in  the 
darkness  that  masked  the  road  to  Mirabelle,  for  the 
fete  day  was  ending,  and  many  soldiers  were  re- 
turning from  one  village  to  the  other.  There  were 
sounds  of  running  feet  on  the  hard  roadway,  and 
pocket-lights  began  to  flash  and  briquets  to  flare, 
wavering  from  side  to  side,  like  eyes  searching  in 
the  night.  Then  came  a  cry  from  below  the  road 
by  the  edge  of  the  canal,  and  the  lights  converged, 
and  formed  a  ring  there. 

The  combined  radiance  threw  a  circular  white 
patch  on  the  trampled  soil  and  young  grass.  In 
the  center  of  it  lay  the  motionless  form  of  a  young 
man.  His  forehead  was  horribly  bruised,  and 
bleeding  from  a  jagged  gash,  and  the  left  breast  of 
his  dark  uniform  showed  a  burned  patch,  and  an 
ugly  hole.  Beside  the  silent  figure  knelt  another 
man,  dressed  in  the  uniform  of  a  soldier  of  France. 
There  was  a  look  of  horror  on  his  young  face,  as 
he  turned  it  up  to  the  searching  light. 

"It's  the  American."  "Is  he  dead?"  "Who 
did  it?  "  "  Who  was  the  first  one  here?  "  "  Not  I." 
"  Nor  I."  The  short,  excited  sentences  fell  from 
many  lips. 


EVENING  251 


"  What's  the  matter  ?  What's  wrong  here  ?  I 
heard  a  shot.  Bon  Dieuf  "  Another  man,  clad  in  a 
lieutenant's  uniform,  arrived  on  the  run,  and  pushed 
his  way  through  the  circle  of  forms.  He  knelt 
beside  the  prostrate  figure,  and  laid  his  hand  over 
the  heart;  then  looked  blackly  around  the  ring  of 
frightened  faces,  and  uttered  a  curt  command.  "Do 
not  allow  any  one  to  leave  this  place  until  I  give 
permission.  Sergeant  Bouvet,  see  that  my  order 
is  obeyed. 

"  Now  then,  who  was  the  first  to  reach  this  spot 
after  the  shot?" 

No  one  answered. 

"  Come,  answer  me,  men.  Somebody  must  have 
been  first." 

"  I  think  that  I  was  the  first  to  reach  it,  with  a 
light,  my  lieutenant,"  responded  the  sergeant.  "  At 
least,  I  saw  none  here  as  I  was  running  up,  although 
I  am  quite  sure  that  I  heard  others  running  also  — 
two  at  least  —  and  I  thought  that  one  was  a  woman, 
for  there  was  a  sound  like  crying." 

"Of  course.  One  would  naturally  assume  as 
much.  But  enough  of  conjecture.  What  did  you 
see,  when  you  got  here  with  your  flash-light  ?  " 

"  I  saw  the  American  just  as  he  is  lying  now,  and 
kneeling  beside  him  .  .  .  Jean  Harent." 


252    THE  MAID  OF  MIRABELLE 

"  Ha !  Were  you,  then,  the  first  to  arrive  ?  Why 
did  you  not  answer  me,  Harent  ?  "  demanded  the 
officer,  sharply. 

"  I  ...  I  was  dazed,  I  think,  my  lieutenant,"  was 
Jean's  halting  reply.  "  Perhaps  I  was  the  first  to 
arrive.  I  do  not  know.  It  was  all  dark." 

"  Well,  what  did  you  see,  and  hear?  " 

"  I  saw  nothing,  my  lieutenant.  It  was  utterly 
dark,  as  I  have  said.  But  I,  too,  heard  the  sound 
of  fleeing  feet." 

"  And  a  woman's  voice  ?  " 

There  was  no  answer.  The  officer  repeated  his 
question,  angrily,  and  augmented  it  with  the  words, 
"  Who  was  that  woman,  Harent  ?  Your  silence 
can  only  be  taken  to  mean  that  you  heard,  and 
recognized  the  voice." 

"  No,  my  lieutenant ;  at  least,  I  cannot  say." 

"  Cannot,  or  will  not  ?  " 
.   Again  the  poilu  failed  to  respond. 

"  Two  of  you  pick  up  the  American,  and  carry 
him  as  gently  as  you  can  to  the  house  of  the  Doctor 
Piquet."  The  sergeant  selected  two  of  the  number, 
and  they  started  slowly  up  the  path  with  their  heavy 
burden. 

"  Now  then,  Bouvet,  search  this  man.  He  knows 
more  about  this  than  he  has  told  us." 

"  There  is  no  weapon  on  him,  my  lieutenant," 


EVENING  253 


announced  the  sergeant,  after  he  had  run  his  hands 
over  Jean's  clothing. 

"  Naturally.  Any  one  would  have  thrown  it  away, 
and  the  canal  is  near  —  and  deep.  But  some  of  you 
commence  to  look  around.  There  is  a  possibility 
that  ..." 

The  others  scattered  to  the  search,  holding  their 
lights  close  to  the  ground,  and,  almost  immediately, 
one  cried,  "  I  have  found  it !  I  have  found  it !  Look, 
my  lieutenant,  there  is  a  pistol  caught  in  the  grass 
close  to  the  water's  edge." 

The  officer  turned,  and  hastened  to  the  spot  in- 
dicated by  the  searcher,  and,  holding  on  to  one  of  his 
hands  for  support,  slid  down  the  bank  and  picked 
up  the  weapon.  The  soldier  helped  him  back  to  the 
path,  and  the  silent  circle  re-formed.  The  lieutenant 
started,  as  the  light  shone  full  upon  the  pistol,  and 
then,  holding  it  forward  under  Jean's  silent  gaze, 
demanded,  "  Did  you  ever  see  this  pistol  before, 
Harent?" 

The  poilu's  eyes  turned  toward  him  with  mute 
anguish. 

"  Yes,  my  lieutenant,  I  think  so." 

"  Ah,  so  I  thought.  Is  it  then  the  German  Luger, 
concerning  the  disappearance  of  which  Lieutenant 
Villier  was  speaking  to  you  at  dejeuner  this  noon?  " 

"  Yes,  my  lieutenant." 


254    THE  MAID  OF  MIRABELLE 

"  You  were  his  orderly,  and  had  access  to  his 
room,  is  it  not  so?" 

There  was  no  reply  this  time. 

"  You  know  the  American,  of  course,  know 
him  well?" 

"  Yes,  he  was  my  friend." 

"  They  had  quarreled  about  that  village  girl,  Joan 
le  Jeune.  At  least  it  has  been  said  that  this  very 
morning  Harent  threatened  to  kill  him,  if  he  did  not 
keep  away  from  her,"  volunteered  one;  and  an- 
other's tongue  was  suddenly  loosened  to  supplement 
this  statement  with,  "  And  the  American  Monsieur 
and  the  girl  started  out  walking  together  this  after- 
noon, my  lieutenant.  I  saw  them." 

"  Enough.  Jean  Harent,  you  are  under  arrest. 
Bouvet,  appoint  two  of  these  men  to  guard  him,  and 
make  a  note  of  the  names  of  all  who  have  been  here. 
Are  either  of  you  armed  ?  "  he  inquired  of  the  pair, 
who,  at  a  word  from  the  sergeant,  had  ranged  them- 
selves on  either  side  of  Jean.  They  shook  their 
heads. 

"  Very  well,  I  will  give  one  of  you  this  pistol,  and 
see  to  it  well  that  you  return  it  to  me.  But  first, 
observe.  There  is  one  exploded  cartridge,  and  one 
bullet  to  be  accounted  for." 

He  drew  the  clip  of  cartridges  out,  and  held  it 
under  the  piercing  eye  of  one  of  the  flash-lights. 


EVENING  255 


The  rest  crowded  close.  All  of  the  cartridges,  save 
one,  still  showed  their  ugly  black  bullets.  The 
lieutenant  sniffed  at  it,  and  nodded.  "  It  has  been 
exploded  recently;  the  smell  of  burned  powder  is 
still  strong." 

He  snapped  the  clip  back  into  its  chamber,  and 
passed  the  weapon  over.  "  If  you  have  occasion  to 
shoot,  shoot  straight,"  was  his  curt  command. 
"  Forward,  march !  " 

The  silent  company  started  forward  in  the  wake 
of  the  one  which  had  preceded  them  towards  Mira- 
belle. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

NIGHT 

WITHIN  the  little  living-room  of  the  cottage, 
everything  was  apparently  as  cosy  as  usual,  but  there 
was  a  spreading  spirit  of  restlessness  in  the  air. 
Joan  blamed  herself  for  it;  she  knew  that  it  had 
had  its  inception  within  her  own  heart.  The  girl 
was  thoroughly  miserable.  The  day,  which  had  be- 
gun so  beautiful  and  so  auspicious,  had  ended  with 
everything  gone  wrong,  and  she  could  not  pretend 
that  the  fault  was  not  largely  her  own. 

She  had  inexcusably  played  with  Jean's  honest 
love  until  he  had  rebelled,  and,  in  anger,  left  her  — 
as  any  man  might  have  done.  Then,  as  though 
perversely  to  punish  him  for  her  own  mistake,  she 
had  flauntingly  extended  an  invitation  to  Daniel, 
and  had  finished  by  hurting  him,  although  less  in- 
tentionally. "  What  a  little  fool  I  have  been,"  she 
said  to  herself.  "  Truly,  I  do  not  deserve  the  love 
of  either  of  them,  and  perhaps  I  have  lost  both." 
The  idea  frightened  her.  It  was  not  the  image  of 

256 


NIGHT  257 

the  American  which  came  to  her  mind  with  the 
thought.  He  had,  at  last,  declared  his  love  as  pas- 
sionately as  any  woman  might  have  desired,  and  it 
had  left  her  heart  merely  troubled,  not  aroused. 
Her  eyes  had  been  opened;  she  had  come  to  full 
realization  that  what  she  held  for  him  was  deep 
affection,  not  love. 

But  Jean.  .  .  . 

Joan's  perturbed  state  of  mind  had  somehow 
seemed  to  infect  the  whole  family,  only  the  stolid 
grandam  remaining  unmoved.  Her  father  and 
mother  had  gone  to  a  neighbor's,  after  telling  her 
pointedly  that  her  fidgetings  were  insufferable;  she 
had  spoken  sharply  to  Suzette,  who  had  come  in  late 
for  dinner,  and  the  girl  had  astonished  her  by 
bursting  into  tears,  and  rushing  off  to  her  room, 
where  she  still  remained  —  "  sulking,"  Joan  charac- 
terized it. 

"  Perhaps  if  I  take  a  little  walk  in  the  darkness 
and  the  cool  night  air,  I  shall  feel  better,"  she 
thought.  "  One  can  decide  everything  more  calmly 
underneath  the  calm  stars,  and  to-night  I  have  many 
heavy  problems,  whereas  this  morning  I  thought 
that  I  had  none."  Automatically,  she  took  her 
shawl  from  its  nail  behind  the  door,  while  her 
thoughts  continued  their  troublesome  course,  "  It  is 
very  strange  that  Monsieur  Steele  has  not  yet  re- 


258    THE  MAID  OF  MIRABELLE 

turned.  Perhaps  he  is  angry,  or  thinks  that  I  am, 
though  truly  I  am  not.  If  he  should  leave  us  I 
should  blame  myself,  and  all  the  rest  would  blame 
me,  for  they  love  him  dearly." 

She  told  the  old  grandmother  that  she  would  be 
gone  only  a  few  moments,  to  get  a  breath  of  fresh 
air,  and  then  stepped  into  the  dark  entry  ...  al- 
most into  the  groping  arms  of  old  Barbette,  who 
was  blindly  searching  for  the  doorway.  The  light, 
which  shone  out  from  the  room,  fell  on  the  crippled 
form,  and  showed  Joan  that  the  wizened  face  was 
working  strangely. 

"  What  is  it  ?  Has  something  happened  to 
frighten  you,  Madame?"  she  asked,  herself  a  little 
frightened  at  the  sudden  apparition. 

"  Aye,  aye.  All  the  world  is  in  trouble,  and  Mira- 
belle  is  the  center  of  it,  to-night.  I  came  as  quickly 
as  my  stick  would  bear  me  .  .  .  '  The  girl  gave 
an  involuntary  start,  for  the  old  hag  truly  looked 
like  a  witch  in  one  of  her  childhood's  story  books, 
but  Barbette  tapped  the  pavement  with  the  cane  upon 
which  she  was  leaning  heavily,  and  continued. 
"  You  have  not  yet  heard,  then,  Mile.  Joan  ?  " 

"  Heard  ?  No,  I  have  heard  nothing.  What  is 
there  to  hear?  " 

The  old  hag  chuckled.  There  was  no  mirth  in  the 
sound,  but  it  held  a  certain  satisfaction.  "  No,  no, 


NIGHT  259 

of  course  you  have  not  yet  heard,  but  old  Barbette 
has  heard,  for  there  are  voices  which  bear  tales 
much  faster  than  do  human  tongues,  and  they  speak 
to  her.  Where,  think  you,  is  the  American  Mon- 
sieur ?  "  she  demanded,  with  startling  abruptness. 

"  I  ...  I  do  not  know.  He  has  not  yet  re- 
turned." 

"  Aye,  he  has  returned  to  Mirabelle,  'though  not 
to  your  house.  He  lies  at  the  house  of  the  soldier 
doctor." 

"  '  The  house  of  the  doctor? '  .  .  .  '  Lies? '  " 

"Yes,  yes,  for,  but  a  half -hour  ago,  one  mur- 
derously assaulted  him  beside  the  canal,  and  now 
his  spirit  is  hovering  in  the  valley  of  the  shadows, 
which  divides  the  land  of  living  men,  from  that  of 
the  dead.  Aye,  he  is  in  the  shadows,  as  old  Bar- 
bette prophesied." 

"Daniel!  Wounded  .  .  .  dying?  Oh,  no,  no, 
no !  Bon  Dieu,  it  cannot  be  true !  "  Horror  swept 
over  Joan  as  a  flood ;  her  thoughts  were  like  drown- 
ing things,  groping  blindly  in  the  turmoil  of  many 
waters,  which  seemed  to  sound  in  her  ears. 

"You  doubt  the  word  of  old  Barbette,  eh? 
Then  wait,  you  shall  hear  the  same  from  many 
other  lips,  soon  enough." 

"  No,  it  is  not  that  I  doubt  your  word,  but  .  .  . 
oh,  it  is  too  awful  to  believe."  Her  heart  was 


260    THE  MAID  OF  MIRABELLE 

leaden,  but  uncertainty  was  worse  than  the  answer 
which  she  sought,  and  feared  to  hear,  and  she  barely 
whispered,  "Who  .  .  .  who  did  it?  Do  they 
know?" 

There  was  the  sound  of  a  faltering-  step  on  the 
stairs  above,  but  Joan's  straining  ears  did  not  catch 
it. 

"  It  is  said  that  the  would-be  murderer  was  an- 
other friend  of  Mile.  Joan  le  Jeune  .  .  .  the  young 
poilu  whom  men  call  Jean." 

"  No,  no !  O  merciful  God  in  heaven  save  us  from 
that !  "  cried  the  girl,  as  she  turned  and  flung  herself, 
arms  upraised,  against  the  entry  wall,  and  pressed 
her  forehead  so  sharply  on  it  that  the  rough  plaster 
bit  into  her  flesh.  There  was  relief  in  the  pain. 
"  It  could  not  be,"  she  moaned. 

"  And  why  could  it  not  have  been,  Mademoi- 
selle?" mumbled  the  woman,  maliciously.  "Men 
are  kin  to  the  beasts,  and  since  time  was,  have 
fought  for  a  soft  caress  from  the  female — especially 
if  she  leads  them  on,  and  makes  them  jealous.  Old 
Barbette  knows ;  aye,  she  knows." 

There  was  a  stumbling  rush  of  feet  down  the  dark 
stairway,  and  Suzette,  her  face  as  white  as  a  ghost's 
within  its  light  golden  frame  of  unbound  hair, 
fairly  threw  herself  on  the  old  woman,  crying 
fiercely,  "  Go  away,  thou  witch.  It  is  all  a  wicked 


NIGHT  261 

lie  that  thou  art  telling  my  sister,  because  thou  lovest 
to  torture  people." 

"  A  lie,  is  it,  my  little  spit-fire  ?  We  shall  see,  we 
shall  see.  But  remember  that  old  Barbette  is  the 
American's  friend,  and  perhaps  her  chance  has 
come  to  help  him  now ;  aye,  perhaps  she  can  help  to 
pluck  him  out  of  the  deep  shadows,  and  send  him 
home  to  her  who  waits  for  him  so  patiently,  so 
patiently."  Still  muttering,  she  hobbled  away,  un- 
noticed, for  Suzette's  arms  were  tight  around  the 
tense  body  of  her  sister,  and  she  was  whispering 
words  of  tenderness,  of  pity,  and  of  hope  to  her, 
while  the  burning  tears,  unseen,  streamed  down  her 
own  face. 

"  Thou  dost  not  believe  what  the  old  witch  has 
said.  Say  that  thou  dost  not,  my  dear  Joan." 

"  But  surely  she  would  not  have  come  to  tell  me 
such  terrible  things,  if  they  were  not  true;  even 
queer  old  Barbette  could  not  do  such  a  thing  as 
that,"  the  other  moaned.  "  And  my  heart  has  been 
so  heavy,  to-night.  It  is  as  though  I  had  had  a 
premonition." 

"  Oh,  Joan !  But  even  if  our  dear  Monsieur  is 
...  is  hurt,  surely  it  was  not  Jean,  whom  thou 
lovest,  who  did  it.  Surely  thou  dost  not  believe 
that." 

"  I  do  not  know ;  how  can  I  tell  ?    O,  holy  Mary, 


262    THE  MAID  OF  MIRABELLE 

was  there  ever  a  girl  so  wretched  as  is  Joan  le  Jeune 
to-night?" 

"  Joan,  I  will  not  have  thee  talk  thus.  Why,  thou 
art  quivering  all  over.  Why  dost  thou  not  weep? 
See,  I  am  crying." 

Suzette  forced  the  other  to  turn  away  from  the 
wall  to  which  she  clung,  and  gathered  her  close  in 
her  strong,  young  arms. 

"  I  knozv  that  it  is  not  true  .  .  .  about  Jean. 
Tell  me  that  thou,  too,  believest,  my  sister." 

"  Yes,  I  do  believe.  Thou  hast  made  me,  I  do  not 
know  why.  It  must,  it  will  come  out  all  right.  Oh, 
I  am  ashamed  that  I  should  have  doubted,  while 
thou  —  whom  I  thought  but  a  child,  and  less  strong 
in  faith  than  I  ...  Oh,  I  cannot  understand,  but 
I  thank  thee,  my  little  sister." 

The  words  broke  the  last  barrier  to  Suzette's 
emotions  and  she  began  to  weep  passionately  against 
Joan's  comforting  shoulder,  and  to  utter  short  muf- 
fled wails  under  her  breath,  as  though  they  came 
from  her  heart,  rather  than  her  lips. 

There  was  a  new  sound,  that  of  other  broken 
wailing  and  of  stumbling  feet  in  the  darkness  out-of- 
doors.  Three  little  forms  groped  their  faltering 
way  into  the  entry,  threw  themselves  upon  Joan, 
and  clung  close  to  her  skirts. 

They  half  led,  half  carried  the  children  inside, 


NIGHT  263 

where,  to  the  accompaniment  of  Pierre's  terrified 
sobbing,  Marie  and  Georgette  finally  succeeded 
in  making  it  known  that  they  had  been  awakened 
by  the  sound  of  excited  voices,  talking  in  the  room 
off  the  chamber  where  they  had  been  slumbering, 
and,  listening,  they  had  learned  that  somebody  had 
put  their  dear  brother  in  prison.  With  but  one  idea 
—  to  bring  their  grief  and  terror  to  Joan  —  they 
had  stolen  away,  unobserved,  and,  clad  in  their  long 
nightgowns,  had  stumbled  through  the  darkness 
filled  with  fearful  shapes,  to  seek  her. 

"  There,  there,  don't  cry  so,  everything  is  going 
to  be  all  right  soon,"  she  crooned,  with  her  lips 
buried  in  Pierre's  tumbled  hair.  "It  is  all  a  great 
mistake.  Thy  Jean  will  soon  be  free  again." 

"  She  says  that  it  is  all  a  great  mistake,  and  that 
Jean  will  soon  be  free,"  repeated  the  eldest,  as  she 
clung  tightly  to  Joan's  neck.  "  Now  I  am  not  so 
frightened,  but,  oh,  canst  thou  not  get  him  out  of 
that  awful  prison  place  to-night,  my  Joan?" 

"  I  cannot  promise  that ;  we  shall  see.  But  now 
you  must  all  go  back  home  before  you  take  cold,  and 
Suzette  shall  accompany  you,  and  sleep  with  you  to- 
night. Then  you  will  not  be  afraid,  is  it  not  so,  my 
precious  ones  ?  " 

"  But  why  wilt  thou  not  come,  instead,  Joan  ?  " 
beseeched  Pierre,  as  he  began  to  weep  afresh. 


264    THE  MAID  OF  MIRABELLE 

"  Thou  canst  take  better  care  of  me  than  any  one 
else." 

New  anguish  wrung  her  heart  at  his  trusting 
words,  and  she  murmured,  brokenly,  "  I  shall  take 
care  of  thee  always,  my  little  one." 

"  Because  thou  art  going  to  marry  Jean,  and  take 
us  to  live  with  thee  ?  " 

There  was  no  longer  hesitation,  either  in  her  heart 
or  her  words,  as  she  answered,  "  Yes,  yes,  I  shall 
surely  marry  Jean,  and  thou  wilt  live  with  me  — 
all  of  you.  But  your  Joan  cannot  come  to-night. 
There  are  many  other  things  for  her  to  do.  Come, 
kiss  me,  sweets,  and  go  home  with  Suzette,  like 
good  children.  Everything  is  going  to  be  all  right, 
soon." 

They  departed,  reluctantly,  Pierre  borne  in  Su- 
zette's  arms,  and  Joan  at  last  stepped  forth  under 
the  calm,  everlasting  stars,  but  it  was  not  to  seek 
solace  in  the  night. 

Her  hurrying  feet  carried  her  first  to  the  house 
which  was  occupied  by  the  surgeon  for  the  battery, 
a  young  man  who  had  been  hastily  summoned  from 
his  half -completed  studies  at  the  University  in  Paris, 
to  complete  his  learning  as  he  labored  on  the  battle- 
field. 

A  light  burned  in  one  of  the  downstairs  rooms. 
Without  pausing  to  knock,  so  filled  with  other 


NIGHT  265 

thoughts  was  her  mind,  she  opened  the  door  and 
entered. 

The  doctor  and  adjutant  were  seated,  smoking. 
They  did  not  even  rise  as  she  entered  so  unceremoni- 
ously, but  merely  regarded  her  with  looks  of  aston- 
ishment, for  her  pale  face  with  its  large,  shadowed 
eyes,  formed  a  striking  picture  of  grief  and  loveli- 
ness. 

"  It  is  about  the  American,  Messieurs,"  she  be- 
gan, breathlessly.  "  He  lives  with  us  —  I  am  Joan, 
Joan  le  Jeune  —  and  it  is  said  that  he  has  been  .  .  . 
been  hurt." 

The  doctor  stood  up.  "  Hurt  ?  Well,  one  would 
be  safe  in  saying  that,  Mademoiselle.  He  had  a  bul- 
let through  his  breast  which  either  touched,  or 
barely  missed,  the  heart,  and  a  bad  concussion  of 
the  brain  from  a  frightful  blow  on  his  temple." 

"  You  mean  .  .  .  you  mean  that  he  is  going  to 
.  .  .  to  die?" 

"  The  former  injury  alone  is  enough  to  kill  him, 
Mademoiselle.  And  the  two  together  ..."  he 
shrugged  his  slender  shoulders.  "  Still,  I  do  not 
hiean  to  frighten  you.  Of  course  he  may  live,  al- 
though I  am  afraid  .  .  .  ' 

"  Where  is  he  now  ?  "  she  barely  whispered,  after 
a  moment  of  poignant  silence. 

The  doctor  nodded  towards  the  adjoining  room. 


266    THE  MAID  OF  MIRABELLE 

the  door  to  which  was  open,  and,  by  the  dim  light 
that  entered  it  from  the  one  in  which  she  was  stand- 
ing, Joan  saw  a  still,  silent  form  lying  on  the  bed, 
with  a  sister  from  the  convent  sitting  beside  it,  just 
as  motionless  and  as  silent. 

"  Can  he  not  be  carried  to  his  own  room,  in  our 
home,  Monsieur?  I  ...  I  am  sure  that  he  would 
prefer  it,  and  we  can  help  the  good  sisters  in  nursing 
him.  Oh,  Monsieur,  I  will  not  leave  him  day  or 
night;  I  would  do  anything  in  the  world  to  save 
him." 

The  surgeon  smiled,  dryly.  "  I  doubt  whether 
he  has  any  preference,  at  present.  But,  since  there 
is  no  hospital  near  by  to  which  he  can  be  carried,  I 
do  not  see  any  reason  why  he  should  not  go  to  your 
house,  as  well  as  remain  here.  Besides,  I  have  a 
personal  interest  in  that  bed,"  he  nodded  toward  the 
other  room  again,  and  Joan  shrank  at  his  apparent 
callousness;  yet,  in  fact,  the  young  physician  wras 
quite  as  willing  to  sacrifice  his  rest,  and  everything 
else,  as  any  of  his  brothers-in-service. 

"  I  may  as  well  tell  you,  frankly,  Mademoiselle, 
that  my  personal  opinion  is  that  he  cannot  live  —  a 
few  days  at  the  most,  if  it  proves  that  the  heart  has 
been  nicked,  but  I  do  not  want  you  to  think  that, 
in  consequence,  we  shall  not  do  everything  possible 
to  save  his  life.  The  Commandant  has  already  des- 


NIGHT  267 

patched  a  telegram  to  the  headquarters  of  his 
Society,  and  to-morrow,  without  doubt,  an  Amer- 
ican physician  will  be  here  as  well." 

"If  he  can  be  moved  without  danger,  it  is  my 
wish,"  she  answered,  with  a  calmness  which  sur- 
prised the  two  men.  The  doctor  glanced  at  the  ad- 
jutant with  slightly  lifted  eyebrows,  but  he  an- 
swered, politely,  "  I  will  have  my  orderlies  do  so 
at  once." 

"  Would  you  .  .  .  would  you  be  so  kind  as  to 

wait  for  a  few  moments  .  .  .  until  I  return  ?    There 

.is  another  thing  that  I  have  to  do;  it  will  take  but 

a  very  little  while,  and  then  I  will  come  back,  and 

accompany  them." 

He  bowed  his  acquiescence. 

"  I  thank  you,  Monsieur."  Joan  turned,  swayed 
a  little,  and  placed  her  hand  for  support  on  the  side 
of  the  door,  but  as  the  doctor  started  forward,  she 
shook  her  head  with  a  faint  smile,  and  walked 
steadily  outside,  alone. 

Through  the  familiar  darkness  she  moved  un- 
hesitatingly until  she  came  before  the  church,  whose 
squat  steeple  blotted  out  a  triangular  patch  of  stars. 
To  the  left  of  the  black  entrance  the  barred  light 
from  a  square  window  shone  into  the  night;  she 
gave  it  one  shuddering  glance,  and  then,  regardless 
of  the  sentry  who,  with  bayoneted  gun,  slowly 


268    THE  MAID  OF  MIRABELLE 

paced  before  it,  knelt  upon  the  stone  steps  of  the 
church.  The  soldier  paused,  peered  at  her  curiously 
for  an  instant,  and  then  continued  his  leisurely 
pacing. 

Joan  bent  her  head  in  a  whispered  Ave  Maria,  and 
then  lifted  her  eyes  to  the  begemmed  black  dome  of 
nature's  great  temple.  Her  whole  soul  became  a 
prayer.  The  petition  was  not  formed  in  words,  but 
she  felt  that  He  who  hears  before  we  ask,  and  is 
ever  more  ready  to  give,  than  we  to  receive,  under- 
stood. Strengthened,  comforted,  she  finally  arose, 
and  turned  toward  the  sentry,  who  halted,  and 
barred  her  advance  with  his  gun. 

"  May  I  ...  may  I  speak  one  word  to  Mon- 
sieur Harent?  Surely  it  can  do  no  harm,  Mon- 
sieur," she  pleaded  softly. 

"  I  regret,  but  it  is  impossible,  Mademoiselle.  The 
orders  of  the  Commandant  prohibit  it." 

"  But  if  I  were  to  obtain  permission  from  the 
Commandant  ?  " 

"  Ah,  that  would,  of  course,  be  a  different  matter. 
But  I  think  that  he  has  now  retired,  and  so  could  not 
listen  to  you  until  morning." 

Joan  bowed  her  head,  and  turned  away  with  a 
heavy  heart.  As  she  reached  the  street  she  turned 
for  one  backward  glance.  There  was  a  new  shadow 
in  the  little  square  of  light  upon  the  ground.  Be- 


NIGHT  269 

hind  the  two  bars  appeared  the  dark  outline  of  a 
head.  The  sentry  had  resumed  his  walk,  and  his 
back  was  turned  toward  her. 

Suddenly,  Joan's  sweet  voice  came  full  and  clear 
through  the  darkness.  "  Jean,  I  know  that  thou  art 
not  guilty;  that  somehow  thou  wilt  be  freed.  And 
Jean  ..."  there  was  the-  barest  break  in  the  sen- 
tence, "  I  love  thee." 

The  sentry  wheeled  angrily,  and  took  one  quick 
step  forward.  Then  he  laughed,  for  he  was  French. 

But  within  the  cramped,  bare  room,  a  heart  was 
throbbing  with  a  great  happiness,  and  although  the 
body  of  Jean  Harent  remained  in  prison,  it  seemed 
to  him  as  though  his  soul  had  been  lifted  to  Para- 
dise. 


CHAPTER  XX 
"THE  MAID" 

"FAITH!" 

For  the  hundredth  time,  it  seemed  to  Joan,  the 
cry  rang  sharply  out  from  the  incoherent  ravings 
of  Daniel's  delirium;  for  the  hundredth  time  the 
man  tried  to  struggle  up,  with  outstretched  arms. 

Sometimes  other  disjointed  words,  and  panted 
sentences,  were  distinguishable  —  words  of  love  and 
pleading,  words  of  renunciation  and  remorse,  re- 
peated over  and  over.  Few  of  them  were  intelligible 
to  Joan,  but  the  thought  finally  came  to  her  that  per- 
haps he  might  be  trying  to  speak  some  message  to 
the  girl  whose  photograph  he  carried;  something 
that  she  would  want  to  know,  if  Daniel  .  .  .  she 
would  not  finish  the  sentence  even  in  her  own  mind. 

She  slipped  from  the  chamber,  which  she  had  left 
scarcely  for  a  moment  during  the  thirty-six  hours 
that  had  elapsed  since  the  desperately  wounded  man 
had  been  brought  to  lie  in  his  own  bed,  and,  shortly 

270 


THE   MAID"  271 


afterwards,  returned  with  her  little  French-English 
dictionary.  One  by  one  she  spelled  out  the  oft  re- 
curring words,  and,  after  much  laborious  searching, 
found  them  in  the  book.  It  was  as  though  she  were 
deciphering  a  coded  message  in  a  foreign  tongue, 
but  meaning  came  slowly  out  of  the  jumble,  and 
Joan  realized,  with  a  mental  start,  that  Jean's  con- 
jecture had,  after  all,  been  correct.  The  revelation 
at  first  shocked  and  pained  her  inexpressibly,  but, 
as  she  mused  upon  it,  the  recollection  of  many  past 
things  crowded  into  her  mind  and  took  on  new 
significance;  she  began  to  understand  the  real  mean- 
ing of  the  man's  periods  of  odd  repression  when  in 
her  presence,  which  she  had  found  amusing,  and 
called  bashf ulness  as  bad  as  a  girl's ;  and  the  whole 
story  of  his  temptation  and  his  struggle  became  as 
an  open  book  to  her. 

Being  a  woman,  she  comprehended,  and  forgave. 
Then  came  a  gleam  of  joy ;  if  he  loved  the  other  girl, 
and  his  heart  had  turned  wholly  back  to  her,  the 
unhappiness,  which  she  had  fancied  as  being  his, 
would  vanish  like  a  dream,  and  he  would  awake  to 
full  contentment  in  the  affection  of  the  woman  to 
whom  he  would  now  return,  as  soon  as  he  should 
become  able  to  travel. 

But  what  did  those  strange  words  mean,  with 
which  he  seemed  to  be  begging  her  not  to  despise 


272    THE  MAID  OF  MIRABELLE 

him  so  deeply,  and  when  he  said  that  it  was  all  over 
—  that  he  would  give  her  up  forever  ?  Was  the 
woman  at  home  so  different,  then,  from  what  Dan- 
iel had  told  her  that  the  name  "  Faith  "  signified? 
Joan  felt  herself  growing  angry  with  the  unknown 
girl,  as  though  she  had  actually  been  present,  and  to 
blame  for  the  bitter  pain  in  the  delirious  man's  heart. 
"I  would  forgive  him,"  she  said  aloud,  thereby 
drawing  a  look  of  puzzled  interrogation  from  the 
silent  nursing  sister.  And  she  knew  that  her  decla- 
ration was  true,  although  it  was  accompanied  by  a 
brief  pang  of  jealousy,  when  she  applied  the  thought 
to  Jean. 

******** 

The  American  doctor  had  come  the  previous 
afternoon,  made  his  examination,  and  departed, 
shaking  his  head. 

"  I  fully  agree  with  Dr.  du  Bois,"  he  had  replied 
to  her  anxious  query.  "  The  patient  may  rapidly 
recover  from  the  concussion,  since  his  skull  was  not 
fractured  —  he  must  have  had  some  particularly 
hard-headed  Dutchman  in  his  ancestral  line  —  but 
the  other  wound  is  a  touch  and  go.  From  the 
course  which  the  bullet  took,  it  may  have  just  es- 
caped, or  just  nicked,  the  outer  covering  of  the 
heart,  and  in  the  latter  case  an  aneurism  is  almost 
certain  to  result,  and  death.  Dr.  du  Bois  has  done 


THE  MAID"  273 


everything  possible  to  prevent  infection  in  the 
wound,  which  was  fortunately  a  clean  one,  and,  if 
the  heart  was  not  injured,  he  may  recover  rapidly  — 
time  alone  will  tell.  There  is  absolutely  nothing 
that  I  could  accomplish  by  remaining  here,  or  that 
you,  or  any  one,  can  do,  Mademoiselle,  except  keep 
him  as  quiet  as  possible  when  the  fever  sets  in." 

All  day  long,  except  when  Joan  fairly  drove  her 
out  to  keep  the  grieving  children  amused,  Suzette 
had  sat  on  the  top  of  the  stairs  just  outside  the 
chamber  door.  Her  mother  had  hardly  been  able  to 
coax  her  away  for  her  meals,  and  they  were  all 
strangely  disturbed  on  her  account,  for  none  of 
them  had  even  imagined  that  her  gay,  youthful  heart 
was  capable  of  so  sustained  a  grief.  For  she  would 
not  be  comforted,  and  passed  the  dragging  hours 
between  sitting  in  a  dazed  silence,  weeping  spas- 
modically, and  praying  with  feverish  intensity. 

All  day  long  the  little  village  had  buzzed  with  the 
news  of  the  tragedy,  and  feelings  had  run  high. 
Many  a  black  look  was  directed  at  the  barred  win- 
dow behind  which  sat  Jean  Harent,  for  the  Amer- 
ican had  been  friendly  with  every  one,  and  the  per- 
sonal friend  of  many.  No  question  was  raised  as 
to  the  poilu's  guilt.  It  was  accepted,  the  case  was 
too  clear  for  doubt ;  and  when  the  rumor  spread  that 
Daniel  had  died,  a  rumor  born  of  the  earlier  one 


274    THE  MAID  OF  MIRABELLE 

that  he  was  dying,  there  had  been  much  angry  mut- 
tering, and  every  soldier  had  been  regarded  with 
hostility. 

Towards  evening  old  Barbette  had  hobbled  up  the 
hill,  with  a  cracked  pitcher  which  held  some  dark, 
home-made  brew,  and  had  demanded  that  it  be  given 
to  the  wounded  man.  Dr.  du  Bois  had  tasted  it, 
and  asked  her  some  questions  regarding  the  ingre- 
dients used  in  its  concoction.  She  had,  at  first, 
stubbornly  refused  to  answer,  but  reconsidered, 
when  he  threatened  to  pour  it  out  of  the  window. 
When  the  old  woman  had  finished  her  voluble  ex- 
planation, regarding  the  magic  healing  herbs  which 
she  had  gathered,  some  by  moonlight,  some  with  the 
dew  still  on  them,  and  insisted  upon  drinking  some 
of  it  herself  to  prove  that  it  was  innocuous,  the 
physician  had  smiled  a  little,  and  said  to  Joan, 
"  Well,  it  cannot  hurt  him.  It  is  mostly  plain  water, 
with  some  soothing  elements  which  might  help  to 
allay  the  fever,  and  I  have  no  objections  to  your 
giving  some  of  it  to  him,  if  it  will  please  the  old 
woman  —  and  he  will  take  it." 

Barbette  had  scowled  blackly,  and  muttered  many 
things  derogatory  to  his  know-everything  profes- 
sion, and,  when  he  had  left,  she  had  insisted  so 
violently  that  she  had  been  especially  chosen  to  save 
the  American's  life,  that  Joan  —  with  the  under- 


THE  MAID"  275 


lying  strain  of  superstition  of  the  Latin  races  —  had 
half  believed  her.  Thereafter,  she  had  given  the 
liquid,  a  spoonful  at  a  time,  to  the  delirious  man. 

The  night  had  been  a  thing  of  horror  to  her,  for 
he  had  raved,  and  thrashed  about  constantly,  during 
the  long  hours  while  darkness  and  silence  reigned 
outside,  but  dawn  of  the  second  day  found  him 
quieter,  perhaps  through  increased  weakness. 

Then  Joan  had  first  realized  how  utterly  she  had 
spent  her  strength,  how  weary  she  was  in  body, 
mind  and  soul.  Her  mother  commented  anxiously 
upon  her  wan  appearance,  and  the  nurse  had  gently 
insisted  that  she  go  away,  and  rest  for  a  while. 
There  was  nothing  that  she  could  do  by  remaining. 

For  a  time  Joan  had  resisted  their  entreaties  and 
reasonings,  with  almost  the  petulance  of  a  tired 
child,  but,  in  the  end,  she  yielded.  Her  mother 
begged  her  to  lie  down  on  her  bed  in  the  downstairs 
room,  but  the  girl  insisted  that  first  she  must  take  a 
little  walk  in  the  open  air,  and  she  put  on  her 
sabots,  for  it  had  rained  during  the  night,  and  went 
out  into  the  early  spring  sunshine. 

Her  habitual  course  was  down  the  hillside  toward 
the  village,  and  her  feet  obeyed  their  established 
habit  and  carried  her  in  that  direction,  although 
she  had  no  conscious  objective. 

Indeed,  she  scarcely  realized  her  surroundings. 


276    THE  MAID  OF  MIRABELLE 

Not  until  a  voice,  close  by  her  elbow,  addressed 
her  by  name,  did  she  lift  her  eyes  from  the  ground. 

"  And  how  goes  it  now,  with  the  American  Mon- 
sieur, Mile.  Joan?  " 

"  He  is  better  —  at  least  I  think  that  he  is  better. 
For  the  first  time  in  a  day  and  a  half  he  sleeps 
quietly." 

"  Good,  but  I  knew  that  it  would  be  so ;  oh,  yes, 
old  Barbette  knew.  The  shadows  are  beginning  to 
lift;  now  he  will  get  well,  and  old  Barbette  will  have 
saved  him  by  her  potions,  which  the  fool  of  a  doctor 
would  have  thrown  out  of  the  window.  You  will 
see  who  was  right,  the  fool  of  a  doctor,  or  poor  old 
Barbette." 

There  was  a  strange  light  on  the  grotesque,  with- 
ered countenance,  and  a  firm  note  of  conviction  in 
her  voice.  They  caused  the  girl's  heart  to  lighten  in 
sympathy,  and  she  actually  felt  a  new  courage  flow- 
ing into  it. 

"  Perhaps  it  is  so.  Oh,  how  I  hope  that  it  is  so !  " 
she  answered,  as  she  laid  her  hand  kindly  over  the 
scrawny  claw  which  held  the  cane.  But  the  re- 
flected light  faded  quickly  away,  like  a  sunset's 
afterglow,  and  left  only  shadows  on  Joan's  pale 
countenance,  and  in  her  brooding  eyes,  as  her 
thoughts  carried  her  around  the  corner  to  where  a 
prison  stood  within  the  angle  of  a  church. 


'THE  MAID"  277 

The  old  woman  had  not  ceased  to  regard  her 
closely,  and  now  she  began  to  nod,  and  smile  her 
twisted,  toothless  smile. 

"  And'when  the  American  Monsieur  is  well  again, 
all  of  Mile.  Joan's  troubles  will  be  ended,  eh  ?  "  she 
croaked. 

"  Why  do  you  speak  and  look  like  that,  Madame? 
Is  it  then  true,  that  you  like  to  torture  one,  as  some 
people  say  of  you? " 

"  Some  people  say  that  of  old  Barbette,  eh  ?  " 
Instead  of  appearing  angry,  the  old  hag  laughed 
with  apparent  satisfaction.  "  Some  people  are  very 
wise  and  think  that  they  know  everything  —  and 
some  people  are  fools,"  she  added,  ambiguously. 
"  You  have  always  treated  me  with  courtesy,  and  I 
would  like  to  be  your  friend,  though  you  may  doubt 
it.  Yes,  I  like  you;  you  are  kind,  you  are  young, 
and  pretty  as  a  flower,  and  why  should  not  such  a 
one  be  happy,  as  well  ?  " 

"  Yet  none  is  more  unhappy  than  she.  Oh, 
Madame,"  cried  the  girl,  beseechingly,  and  she 
seized  the  wrinkled  hand  and  pressed  it  against  her 
young  breast.  "If  thou  couldst  only  help  me !  "  In 
her  despair  Joan  was  almost  like  a  child,  ready  to 
grasp  at  any  straw  of  comfort,  to  believe  in  any- 
thing—  even  witchcraft  —  if  it  promised  to  solace 
her  heart. 


278    THE  MAID  OF  MIRABELLE 

"  And  perhaps  old  Barbette  can  help  thee,  also, 
who  knows?  There  are  voices  that  she  hears,  to 
which  all  other  ears  are  deaf,  and  sometimes  they 
whisper  strange  things  to  her,  aye,  strange  things." 
Again  she  nodded,  sagely,  but  for  an  instant  Joan's 
ready  faith  was  shaken,  for  Dr.  du  Bois  had  casually 
mentioned  that  the  strange  old  woman,  abroad  on 
one  of  her  nocturnal  prowls,  had  been  before  his  cot- 
tage when  Daniel  was  borne  thither,  and  had  lis- 
tened with  eager  interest,  as  well  as  apparent  anger, 
to  the  story  of  the  assault  upon  him. 

"  Hast  thou  ever  visited  the  ruined  old  chateau, 
yonder  on  the  hilltop,  Mademoiselle  ? "  she  de- 
manded, with  a  peculiar  insinuation.  Joan  started. 
Could  the  old  woman  read  the  thoughts  of  men,  as 
she  had  heard  folks  say,  or  had  she  seen  Daniel  and 
her  together  there,  on  that  fateful  afternoon?  Bar- 
bette was  still  watching  her,  and  the  girl  nodded 
silently,  with  a  question  in  her  large  eyes. 

"  It  is  an  interesting  spot,  is  it  not  ?  Old  Barbette 
visits  it  often,  and  there  sees  many,  many  things  — 
fine  lords  and  ladies,  in  silks  and  laces,  who  dance  in 
stately  fashion  for  her ;  splendid  feasts ;  young  gal- 
lants of  bygone  days  at  their  love-making;  aye, 
and  noble  quarrels,  when  blood  is  shed  over  the 
color  of  a  damsel's  eyes,  or  other  foolishness.  And 
there  the  voices  speak  to  her  most  clearly.  Per- 


THE   MAID"  279 


haps  if  thou  shouldst  go  to  the  old  chateau,  Made- 
moiselle .  .  .  ' 

"  What  should  I  find  ?  "  demanded  Joan,  breath- 
lessly. 

"  What  wouldst  thou  find  ?  Who  has  said  that 
thou  wouldst  find  anything?  Not  old  Barbette. 
But  at  least  there  is  calm,  peace  and  beauty,  there  — 
thou  wouldst  find  that,  and  strength  is  bred  of  these. 
Old  Barbette  knows,  she  knows." 

"  I  will  go  there,"  answered  the  girl,  with  sudden 
decision.  The  first  part  of  the  old  woman's  utter- 
ances was  clearly  but  the  foolishness  of  a  poor, 
cracked  brain,  but  there  was  wisdom  in  the  last  sug- 
gestion. Her  secret  place  seemed  to  call  out  an  in- 
vitation, to  come  and  seek  peace  and  strength  in  the 
silent  woods ;  and,  with  a  hurried  word  of  farewell, 
she  made  her  way  through  the  village  street — where 
many  glances,  not  so  friendly  as  of  yore,  were 
turned  upon  her  —  over  the  stone  bridge,  and  to- 
ward the  open  field. 

The  dividing  line  between  Mirabelle  and  its 
neighboring  town,  was  marked  by  an  ancient  way- 
side cross  of  stone,  its  monumental  pedestal  cracked, 
and  its  steps  well-worn  by  the  contact  of  many  a 
bended  knee.  A  tree  shadowed  the  spot,  but, 
through  an  opening  in  its  branches,  the  morning 
sunlight  streamed  full  upon  the  symbol  of  her  faith, 


280    THE  MAID  OF  MIRABELLE 

and  made  it  appear  as  though  it  were  actually  rising 
out  of  the  shadows,  surrounded  with  golden  glory. 
The  new  grass  was  still  wet,  but,  heedless  of  this 
fact,  Joan  turned  from  the  roadway,  dropped  on  her 
knees  before  the  cross  and  gazed  up  at  it,  raptly. 

Religion  had  become  a  mere  form  with  many  of 
the  men  of  France,  until  the  war  fanned  the  dying 
ember  into  a  flame,  here  and  there;  but  to  the  real 
French  woman  her  faith  is  an  integral  part  of  her 
being,  and  Joan's  look  of  devotion  was  tinged  with 
awe.  To  her  mind,  already  stirred  to  its  depths  by 
the  emotions  of  the  past  two  days,  the  purely  natural 
phenomenon  assumed  a  special  meaning  —  an  un- 
spoken message  addressed  to  her  alone.  Was  the 
age  of  miracles  really  ended,  as  people  said  ?  France 
was  flooded  with  strange  stories  from  the  battle- 
fields, stories  of  happenings  which  seemed  truly 
miraculous.  And  had  not  One  said,  that  to  them 
who  have  faith,  all  things  are  possible? 

She  arose,  already  comforted,  and,  with  a  deeper 
trust,  walked  across  the  flowering  field,  where  the 
song  of  birds  and  the  colorful  blossoms  still  further 
calmed  her  turbulent  heart. 

But  her  weariness  of  body,  which  the  climb  up 
the  steep  hillside  augmented,  and  the  shadows  under 
the  trees,  caused  her  painful  thoughts  to  return 
to  settle  and  prey  upon  her  mind  like  black 


THE  MAID"  281 


birds.  Memory  revived  every  incident  of  the  recent 
days  which  had  been  so  full,  and  almost  every  one 
of  them  was  laden  with  bitterness.  Her  mind  dwelt 
upon  each  actor  in  the  tragic  drama,  even  down  to 
the  minor  characters,  one  after  the  other;  her  heart 
ached  for  Marie,  Georgette  and  little  Pierre,  and  it 
found  room  for  deep  concern  over  her  younger 
sister's  patent  grief. 

"  How  strange  it  is,"  she  mused,  "  that  Suzette 
should  be  so  terribly  affected."  Then  she  started, 
inwardly,  and  her  eyes  grew  big.  "  Is  it  possible 
that  she  is  really  in  love  with  Daniel?  Impossible. 
Why,  she  is  only  a  child  —  yet  she  is  nearly  seven- 
teen, and  perhaps  the  heart  of  a  woman  beats  in  her 
young  breast.  If  this  is  true,  the  dear  God  help  her, 
for  her  suffering  is  as  great  as  mine,  and  he  is  not 
for  her ;  she  will  lose  him,  even  as  I  may  lose  .  .  .  * 
Joan  turned,  and  threw  herself  face  downward  upon 
the  moss-covered  bank,  and  cried  aloud,  "  O,  immor- 
tal Maid  of  Domremy  —  Joan,  my  patron  saint  — 
hear,  and  help  me." 

For  the  first  time,  her  overcharged  soul  found  the 
relief  which  lies  in  tears,  and,  with  her  face  buried 
in  the  soft  moss,  she  sobbed  without  restraint. 

At  length  her  shaking  form  became  more  quiet, 
and  her  breathing  more  even. 

The  shadows  seemed  to  grow  deeper,  and  to  en- 


282    THE  MAID  OF  MIRABELLE 

fold  her  in  a  soothing,  soft  embrace.  She  could 
still  see  the  sunlit  valley  below,  and  a  glimpse  of 
Mirabelle  through  a  vista  in  the  woods,  but,  some- 
how, it  looked  unfamiliar  through  her  tears.  Surely 
it  was  altered.  The  river  wound  more  peacefully, 
and  it  had  overflowed  its  banks  and  formed  gleam- 
ing paths,  and  placid  pools  in  the  field ;  the  hillside 
beyond  was  steeper,  and  the  village  much  smaller, 
and  more  scattering.  There  seemed  to  be  an  unreal, 
mellow  light,  richer  than  sunshine,  over  everything. 
A  little  flock  of  snowy  sheep  was  grazing  on  the 
green  hillside,  and  there  was  a  young  girl,  in  quaint 
and  old-fashioned  attire,  tending  them.  "  How 
odd,"  thought  Joan.  "  I  felt  sure  that  I  knew  every 
one  in  Mirabelle  —  if  that  is  Mirabelle.  Yet  there 
is  a  damsel  of  about  my  own  age,  or  a  little  younger, 
whom  I  have  surely  never  seen  before.  Or  have 
I?  "  She  was  greatly  puzzled,  and  wished  that  she 
were  closer  to  the  young  stranger  so  that  she  might 
speak  to  her.  "  For  she  is  very  lovely,  especially  her 
hair,"  she  found  herself  adding.  "  The  light  shines 
on  it  just  as  it  did  on  the  wayside  cross,  at  which 
I  knelt  on  my  way  hither.  It  is  almost  like  a  halo. 
Why,  it  is  a  halo !  "  Then,  suddenly,  she  understood 
who  it  was  upon  whom  she  was  gazing.  The  reali- 
zation did  not  surprise  her,  nor  was  she  startled  to 
find  herself  close  to  the  girl,  although  just  how  it 


THE  MAID"  283 


had  occurred  she  did  not  know.  "  Joan  —  Joan  of 
Arc,"  she  whispered,  softly,  yet  with  a  strange  thrill 
in  her  voice. 

But  The  Maid  did  not  turn  at  the  words.  She 
seemed  to  be  speaking  to  someone  else  on  the  other 
side  of  her.  Yes,  there  was  another  there  —  a 
maiden  who  seemed  to  be  kneeling  at  her  feet  in  an 
attitude  of  profoundest  sorrow. 

"  Thou  must  confess  the  truth,  poor  child.  It  is 
the  only  way  to  right  the  wrong,  and  banish  the 
ache  from  thine  own  heart,"  came  in  a  voice  like 
the  sound  of  silver  bells,  far  away. 

The  other  girl  slowly  lifted  her  tear-stained  face, 
and  Joan  caught  herself  starting,  and  wanting  to 
cry  aloud.  For  she  was  looking  upon  the  face  of 
.  .  .  Suzette. 

The  picture  faded  and  changed.  The  stream  grew 
straighter,  and  began  to  dance  in  the  sunlight,  the 
hill  was  less  high.  The  town  covered  it  closely  and 
left  no  room  for  sheep,  or  shepherdess.  It  was 
Mirabelle  again. 

The  girl  sprang  to  her  feet,  with  ecstasy  and  ter- 
ror in  her  countenance. 

"  Joan,  Maid  of  Domremy !  "  she  cried.  "  I  have 
seen  thee!  Heaven  has  granted  me  a  vision,  as  in 


284    THE  MAID  OF  MIRABELLE 

the  olden  days!  But  oh,  what  does  it  mean,  what 
does  it  mean  ?  I  am  so  frightened !  " 

Trembling,  often  stumbling,  she  ran  blindly 
down  the  twisting  path,  and  across  the  fields.  Only 
at  intervals  did  she  pause,  to  quiet  the  wild  beating 
of  her  heart.  Through  the  village  she  hastened, 
at  scarcely  diminished  speed,  and  so  came  to  her 
own  home,  flushed,  panting,  wide-eyed. 

At  the  door  Suzette  met  her.  The  younger  girl's 
face  was  alight  with  gladness. 

"  Oh,  Joan  ?  He  is  better !  He  is  himself  again. 
He  has  just  spoken  a  few  words  of  understanding, 
and  now  he  will  get  well.  Oh,  thank  God,  he  will 
get  well ! " 


CHAPTER  XXI 

SUZETTE'S  CONFESSION 

"  SUZETTE,  come  to  my  chamber.  I  wish  to  talk 
with  thee  alone." 

An  unusual  note  of  repression  in  Joan's  voice 
caused  her  younger  sister  to  look  at  her  curiously, 
and  something  that  she  saw  in  the  tense  face  before 
her,  brought  a  sudden  pallor  to  her  own  counte- 
nance, and  an  expression  of  fear  to  her  dilating  eyes. 
Suzette  felt  her  knees  grow  weak  and  faltering,  as 
she  climbed  the  narrow  stairs  behind  the  other. 

The  door  into  Daniel's  room  was  open,  but  Joan 
did  not  pause  so  much  as  to  glance  through  it,  as 
she  passed,  whereupon  Suzette  quavered,  "  Art  thou 
not  going  to  speak  to  Monsieur  ?  He  has  been  ask- 
ing for  thee." 

"  Not  yet.  There  is  another  thing  to  be  done, 
first." 

"What  other  thing,  my  sister?  Why  dost  thou 
look  at  me  like  that?" 

"  Come."  Joan  stood  aside,  and  motioned  for 
285 


286    THE  MAID  OF  MIRABELLE 

Suzette  to  enter  her  own  room.  She  quietly  closed 
and  locked  the  door  behind  them,  and  then,  seating 
herself  on  the  edge  of  the  bed,  took  both  of  her 
sister's  oddly  cold  hands  in  hers.  She  realized  that 
they  were  trembling. 

"  Now,  my  dear  one,  I  want  thee  to  tell  me  the 
truth."  By  an  effort,  she  kept  her  voice  calm  and 
clear. 

"The  truth?  What  dost  thou  mean,  Joan?" 
whispered  Suzette. 

"  She  said,  l  Thou  must  confess  the  truth.  It  is 
the  only  way  to  right  the  grievous  wrong,  and  ban- 
ish the  ache  from  thine  own  heart.' ' 

"She  said  it?  But  who?  What  hast  thou  heard ? 
Oh,  I  am  frightened,  Joan."  The  girl  dropped  to 
her  knees  before  her  sister,  and  clung  desperately 
to  her. 

"Joan  of  Arc." 

"  What  art  thou  saying  ?  Has  the  trouble  turned 
thy  brain,  or  hast  thou  been  dreaming?  " 

"  Perhaps  men  would  say  that  I  have  dreamed, 
but  I  know  that  Heaven  has  granted  me  a  vision." 
She  recounted  her  experience  in  the  ruined  chateau, 
and  Suzette's  eyes  grew  larger  and  more  terrified 
the  while.  When  the  story  was  finished  there  was 
perfect  silence  in  the  room  for  a  moment,  like  the 
lull  in  nature  before  the  breaking  of  a  storm.  Then 


SUZETTE'S  CONFESSION      287 

Suzette  uttered  a  sigh,  that  was  half  sob,  and  her 
head  dropped  against  Joan's  knees.  The  trembling 
of  her  body,  which  she  had  succeeded  in  controlling 
up  to  that  instant,  broke  the  barrier  of  her  will,  and 
her  slender  form  was  shaken  with  every  breath. 
The  other  did  not  speak,  but  gently  and  steadily 
caressed  the  silken  hair  under  her  hand. 

"  Yes,  it  is  true,  Joan."  The  words  came  like  a 
sigh,  at  length,  and  the  muffled  voice  wailed  on,  "Oh, 
Joan,  it  is  true,  and  I  have  been  living  in  purgatory. 
I  have  tried  to  tell,  but  I  was  afraid,  so  afraid.  And 
I  prayed  constantly  that  the  American  might  re- 
cover, for  it  would  have  been  too  awful  if  he  had 
died;  and  besides,  if  he  lived  he  might  then  speak 
the  words  that  would  set  Jean  free,  and  perhaps  I 
could  always  have  kept  my  secret.  But  if  he  had 
died  I  should  have  told  —  oh,  thou  must  believe  that, 
my  sister.  Tell  me  that  thou  dost,"  she  cried,  in 
agony. 

"  Yes,  yes,  my  dear  one.  Joan  does  believe  it. 
But  now  thou  must  tell  me  all,  for  thy  soul's  sake." 

"  I  am  going  to ;  I  want  to.  Oh,  I  have  wanted 
to  all  along,  but  I  did  not  dare.  It  was  not  thy  Jean 
who  shot  Monsieur  Steele,  but  .  .  ,  "  there  fol- 
lowed a  pause,  which  seemed  interminable  to  the 
listening  girl,  "...  but  Lieutenant  Villier." 

"  Lieutenant  Villier  ?    Suzette,  how  could  it  have 


288    THE  MAID  OF  MIRABELLE 

been?  He  left  Mirabelle  on  the  mid-afternoon 
train." 

"  No,  he  did  not  go  —  or  rather  he  left  the  train 
at  the  next  station,  and  came  back." 

"  But  why  ?  How  dost  thou  know  all  this  ?  I 
do  not  understand,  Suzette." 

"  He  came  back  ..."  the  muffled  voice  was  dull 
with  pain  now.  "  He  came  back  .  .  .  for  me, 
Joan." 

"For  thee?  What  art  thou  saying,  my  little 
sister  ?  " 

"  It  is  true,  Joan.  Oh,  I  will  tell  thee  everything, 
so  that  perhaps  thou  wilt  understand."  The  long- 
pent-up  words  burst  forth  in  a  torrent  of  speech. 
"  He  loved  me,  I  am  sure  that  he  loved  me,  for  he 
told  me  so  often.  Please  do  not  look  that  way, 
Joan.  I  could  not  help  meeting  him,  when  he  began 
to  ask  that  I  do  it,  for  he  was  so  brave  and  hand- 
some, and  I  cared  for  him  so  much." 

"  I  do  not  blame  thee,  my  little  one,  for  thou  art 
innocent  and  young.  But  why  didst  thou  not  tell 
us  —  or  me,  at  least?  " 

"  I  was  afraid  that  father  and  mother  would  for- 
bid it,  and  that  thou  wouldst  try  to  dissuade  me,  and 
say  —  as  thou  hast  just  done  —  that  I  was  too 
young  to  have  a  lover.  But  I  am  almost  seventeen, 
Joan,  and  no  longer  a  child,  although  thou  wouldst 


SUZETTE'S  CONFESSION      289 

treat  me  as  one,  still."  Her  spirit  flared  up  for  an 
instant,  but  she  went  on  piteously.  "  He  told  me 
many  wonderful  stories  about  the  great  city  of 
Paris,  and  he  promised  to  take  me  there  when  he 
went  home  .  .  .  Oh,  Joan,  I  do  not  like  to  see  you 
look  at  me  that  way !  We  were  to  be  married ;  he 
said  that  we  would  surely  be  married,  but  it  could 
not  be  here  because  he  was  afraid  that  my  parents 
would  not  consent,  until  I  should  be  older.  But  I 
was  certain  that  they  would  forgive  me  when  they 
knew  that  I  loved  him  so,  and  that  we  were  married. 
And  so  I  promised  to  run  away,  and  go  with  him 
as  he  asked.  We  would  have  gone  on  the  afternoon 
train,  but  his  comrades  said  that  they  were  all  going 
to  the  station  to  bid  him  farewell,  so  he  told  me  that 
he  would  return  at  dusk,  and  meet  me  at  the  bridge 
a  little  while  before  the  evening  train  left. 

"  Oh,  I  was  so  happy,  even  though  I  was  afraid, 
too.  But  when  the  moment  came,  I  found  that  I 
could  not  leave  you,  and  I  told  him  that  I  was 
frightened.  Then  he  would  not  listen;  he  tried  to 
take  me  in  his  arms  and  make  me  go  to  the  train; 
that  was  all,  Joan  —  but  I  guess  that  I  screamed. 
And  then  .  .  .  oh,  Joan,  truly  I  did  not  know  that 
it  was  our  Monsieur  who  came  and  saved  me,  for 
I  ran  away  as  fast  as  I  could,  and  came  home.  But 
how  I  have  suffered  since  I  learned  the  truth,  and  it 


290    THE  MAID  OF  MIRABELLE 

seemed  that  Monsieur  Steele  must  die.  I  felt  as 
though  I  were  a  murderer,  Joan,  for  I  was  to  blame 
for  it  all." 

"  No,  thou  wert  not  wholly  to  blame,  my  Suzette. 
It  was  as  much  my  fault  as  it  was  thine.  For,  if 
I  had  not  aroused  his  jealousy,  Jean  might  not  have 
been  suspected,  and,  indeed,  it  might  not  have 
happened  at  all,  for  I  was  also  the  cause  of  Daniel's 
being  there.  But  if  he  had  not  .  .  .  Oh,  Suzette, 
it  is  terrible,  but  I  am  glad  that  he  was  there.  Per- 
haps the  bon  Dieu  willed  it,  so  that  thou  mightest  be 
saved,  from  that  of  which  I  cannot  bear  to  think." 

"  Thou  must  not  speak  like  that.  Have  I  not 
said  that  we  were  to  be  married  ?  " 

"  Poor  little  one,  thou  art  indeed  still  a  child. 
Monsieur,  the  lieutenant,  is  a  Parisian,  wealthy,  and 
of  the  '  class.'  Such  a  one  does  not  marry  a  simple 
village  girl,  my  sister." 

"  But  he  loved  me,  Joan,"  persisted  the  girl,  un- 
shaken. 

"  Perhaps  he  did.  I  will  not  say  that  it  is  not  so, 
nor  do  I  blame  him.  Oh,  my  dear,  my  dear,  how  my 
heart  aches  for  thee !  Tell  me,  dost  thou  still  care  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  know.  My  heart  has  been  so  numb  at 
times,  and  so  filled  with  bitter  pain  at  others,  that  I 
scarcely  know  how  I  feel.  But,  after  what  has  hap- 
pened, I  could  never,  never  see  him  again."  The 


SUZETTE'S  CONFESSION      291 

elder  girl  held  her  close  in  her  arms  until  the  trem- 
bling form  grew  quieter,  and  the  dry  sobs  ceased. 

"  Go  out-of-doors,  and  take  a  long  walk  by  thy- 
self, Suzette.  Thou  hast  need  of  it,  even  as  I  had, 
and  I  want  to  be  alone,  and  think." 

"  And  thou  hast  forgiven  me ;  thou  wilt  save  me, 
Joan?" 

"  Yes,  little  one.    Do  not  be  afraid  any  more." 

"  But  Jean  ?  Cannot  he  be  taken  from  that  awful 
prison  at  once  ?  " 

"  I  hope  that  it  may  be  so,  but,  as  much  as  I  love 
him,  and  suffer  to  have  him  there  —  I  would  gladly 
take  his  place  if  it  were  possible  —  a  little  longer 
will  make  no  difference  now,  and  he  would  under- 
stand, if  he  were  to  know  the  truth.  Come,  do  as 
I  have  told  thee,  and  stay  out-of-doors  until  thou 
art  calmer.  Everything  is  coming  out  all  right  at 
last,  for,  thanks  to  the  merciful  God,  Daniel  will 
live.  Thou  art  sure  of  that,  Suzette?  " 

"  Yes,  even  the  doctor  has  said  so.  His  escape  is 
a  miracle,  he  says." 

"  Kiss  me,  and  go."  The  two  sisters  clung  to 
one  another  for  a  long  time,  then  Joan  gently  pushed 
the  other  from  the  room,  and  closed  the  door  behind 
her.  She  felt  that  she  needed  to  be  alone,  and  to 
think  as  she  had  never  thought  before. 

Although   immeasurable  relief   filled  her  heart, 


292    THE  MAID  OF  MIRABELLE 

there  was  a  new  ache  in  it  —  that  which  had  been  in 
Suzette's,  and  she  was  glad  that  she  could  bear  it  for 
her.  But  now  she  must  find  some  way  to  save  her 
little  sister.  If  her  story  became  known,  even  to 
her  father,  the  happiness  of  the  family  would  be 
forever  ended,  she  felt.  He  was  just,  and  would  do 
nothing  to  the  child,  but  he  was  also  stern  and  the 
happiness  of  her  young  life  would  be  ruined.  And 
Joan  knew  that  she  was  not  afraid  to  trust  her, 
henceforth.  The  girl  had  learned  one  of  life's 
hardest  lessons,  and  she  would  not  err  again. 

At  last  she  arose,  and  went  silently  into  Daniel's 
room. 

The  man  slowly  turned  his  bandaged  head,  and 
regarded  her  with  a  flickering  smile  of  pleasure, 
which  swiftly  faded  into  an  expression  of  humilia- 
tion and  sorrow.  This  vanished  in  turn,  as  she 
seated  herself  by  the  bedside,  took  his  hand  in  her 
soothing  clasp,  and  softly  stroked  his  rumpled  hair. 
Daniel  closed  his  aching  eyes  with  a  sense  of  utter 
peace. 

"  I  will  sit  with  him  for  a  little  while,  if  you  wish 
to  go  for  a  walk,  or  visit  the  convent,  my  sister," 
she  remarked  to  the  nurse,  who  gave  her  a  look  of 
gratitude,  and  glided  from  the  chamber. 

"  Daniel,  thou  art  better;  thou  art  going  to  get 
well,"  affirmed  Joan,  quietly. 


SUZETTE'S  CONFESSION      293 

"  Of  course.  I  feel  as  strong  as  an  ox  now,"  he 
smilingly  agreed,  but  his  weak  voice  somewhat  be- 
lied the  assertion. 

"  Shall  I  sit  like  this,  or  art  thou  strong  enough 
to  talk  for  a  few  moments?  I  suppose  that  the 
doctor  has  told  them  to  keep  thee  quiet,  and  1  would 
not  suggest  it,  if  it  were  not  important  —  to  an- 
other." 

"Of  course  I  can  talk,  dear  girl,  but  I  do  not 
know  what  to  say  to  thee  .  .  .  how  to  ask  thy  par- 
don for  ...  " 

She  laid  her  finger  gently,  but  firmly,  on  his  lips. 
"  It  is  not  about  that,  my  dear.  I  understand,  and 
thou  art  never  to  speak  of  it  again;  indeed,  I  was 
the  one  to  blame.  But  now  I  am  happy,  for  I  know 
that  the  sweet  girl,  whom  thou  callest  Faith,  is 
waiting  for  thee  in  America." 

He  started  visibly,  and  closed  his  eyes  as  though 
something  were  hurting  him.  Then  he  whispered 
the  inquiry,  "  How  didst  thou  know  that  she  .  .  .  ' 

Joan  laughed,  a  little  unsteadily.  "  Perhaps  I  am 
like  old  Barbette,  and  have  voices  that  tell  me  things 
that  others  cannot  hear.  She  has  been  deeply 
concerned  over  thine  .  .  • .  illness,  Daniel,  and 
brought  thee  a  strange  brew,  which  she  insists  was 
the  thing  that  saved  thy  life." 

"  Perhaps  it  is  true,"  he  replied,  and,  realizing 


294    THE  MAID  OF  MIRABELLE 

that  for  some  reason  she  did  not  want  to  answer 
his  inquiry,  he  refrained  from  pressing  it. 

"  Daniel,  there  is  one  question  that  I  must  ask  thee 
to  answer,  even  though  the  subject  is  painful  to  us 
both.  Dost  thou  know  who  it  was  that  wounded 
thee?" 

His  expression  indicated  that  he  was  startled 
again,  and  that  bitter  memories  were  stirring  to  life 
in  his  brain,  but  he  did  not  reply.  Nevertheless  Joan 
felt  that  she  was  answered. 

"  He  .  .  .  Lieutenant  Villier  escaped ;  he  has  not 
been  suspected,  Daniel." 

"  I  am  glad.  I  had  hoped  that  it  was  so,  but  have 
not  dared  to  ask,"  he  responded.  "  And  I  hope 
that  he  did  not  know  that  it  was  I  who  attacked 
him.  He  was  my  friend  and  I  could  even  forgive 
him  for  wounding  me,  for  it  was  to  save  his  life,  if 
it  were  not  for  the  other  thing  that  he  had  done. 
And  no  one  knows  that  thou  wert  there,  Joan  ?  " 

"  I  ?  "  Her  astonishment  was  unmistakably  evi- 
denced in  the  intonation  with  which  she  spoke. 

"  But  yes.  Thou  seest,  I  recognized  thy  voice. 
Was  it  not  thee  after  all?  "  he  demanded. 

Joan's  thoughts  were  working  swiftly  in  an  en- 
deavor to  fit  this  new  idea  into  the  tragic  tangle. 
The  truth  burst  upon  her  like  a  great  light,  for  she 
knew  that  her  voice  and  Suzette's  were  much  alike. 


SUZETTE'S  CONFESSION      295 

"  Thou  earnest  to  save  me?  "  she  whispered,  with 
a  thrill  in  the  words. 

"  Of  course.  But  I  do  not  understand.  If  it  was 
not  thee  .  .  .  " 

The  girl's  heart  leaped  with  happiness.  She  need 
not  tell  him  the  truth,  and  so  Suzette  would  be 
spared  even  his  knowledge  of  her  shame. 

"  Please  do  not  ask  any  more  about  it.  I  want  to 
forget,"  she  evaded,  with  downcast  eyes,  and  his 
response  was  a  weak  pressure  on  her  hand. 

"  Yes,  the  lieutenant  escaped,  Daniel,  but  .  .  . 
oh,  I  hate  to  tell  thee  .  .  .  another  was  arrested 
for  his  crime,  and  now  awaits  trial  in  the  military 
prison." 

"Another?  But  how  is  it  possible,  and  who  is 
it?  "  He  attempted  to  struggle  up,  crying,  "  Joan, 
it  is  not  ...  ?  " 

"  Yes,  it  is  thy  friend  and  my  lover,  Jean." 

With  a  gasp  of  pain,  Daniel  sank  weakly  back, 
but  although  he  seemed  unable  to  voice  the  question 
in  his  eyes,  she  understood,  and  very  simply  retold 
the  story  of  how  he  had  been  found,  and  why  the 
cloak  of  guilt  had  fallen  upon  the  poilu. 

"  We  must  save  him  ...  at  once,  Joan,"  he 
panted.  "  But  why  hast  thou  waited ;  why  hast 
thou  not  told  the  truth  before?  And  how  was  Vil- 
lier  there  at  all  —  I  thought  that  he  had  departed 


296    THE  MAID  OF  MIRABELLE 

for  Paris.  Oh,  there  are  many  things  which  I  do 
not  understand." 

Joan  was  now  face  to  face  with  the  necessity  of 
making  a  direct  falsehood.  She  hesitated,  but  only 
because  she  did  not  know  how  to  answer,  and  the 
sudden  appearance  of  Suzette  in  the  doorway, 
saved  her. 

The  girl's  eyes  were  red,  and  her  face  streaked 
with  tears.  "  I  have  been  listening,  Joan.  I  could 
not  stay  alone,  and  crept  back  to  the  door.  She 
said  that  I  must  tell  the  truth,  and  now  thou  must; 
I  will  not  have  thee  lie,  for  me.  Please  tell  him, 
for  I  cannot."  She  dropped  by  the  bedside  and 
buried  her  head  in  the  clothes,  and,  before  Joan  had 
finished,  Daniel  was  gently  passing  his  hand  over 
the  child's  curls,  with  pitying  caress. 

"  It  is  all  right  now,  my  little  sister.  Thou  wert 
not  to  blame,  nor  do  I  now  blame  Villier  so  greatly, 
for  I  know  his  nature,  and  God  has  made  me  under- 
stand something  of  his  temptation." 

"  And  thou  wilt  not  demand  that  he  be  punished, 
Monsieur?"  entreated  Suzette. 

"  Not  by  men,  but  I  think  that  he  is  already  being 
punished  by  a  higher  power."  His  thoughts  re- 
turned, as  they  had  so  often,  to  Barbette's  queer 
prophecies  — "  his  soul  will  sweat  with  the  tor- 
tures of  the  damned,  and  old  Barbette  will  laugh." 


SUZETTE'S  CONFESSION      297 

"  Come,  do  not  cry  any  more,  little  sister.  We 
have  all  of  us  sinned,  but  God  is  kind  to  his  children, 
and  it  is  for  us  to  atone  by  overcoming  evil  with 
good,  hate  with  love.  This  is  my  faith,  and,  thanks 
to  Him,  I  have  come  back  to  it.  I  forgive  Lieu- 
tenant Villier,  even  as  thou  hast,  but,  when  I  am  well 
enough  to  go  to  Paris,  I  must  see  him,  for  I  know 
that  he  needs  my  help.  And  poor  Jean,  how  he 
must  have  suffered,  loving  thee,  Joan,  and  facing 
death,  for  I  know  that  such  an  assault  by  a  soldier 
brings  capital  punishment." 

"  He  also  sinned,  Daniel." 

"  Through  a  love  that  was  higher  than  mine.  But 
thou  must  hasten  to  the  Commandant,  and  tell  him 
that  I  want  to  speak  to  him  at  once.  I  shall  tell 
him  that  I  recognized  my  assailant,  and  that  it  was 
not  Jean." 

"  But  if  he  should  insist  that  thou  tellest  who  it 
was,  or  at  least  describe  him,  Daniel  ?  "  There  was 
new  terror  in  Joan's  voice. 

"  I  should  refuse." 

******** 

The  interview,  which  followed  a  little  later,  was 
brief,  for  Dr.  du  Bois  early  recognized  the  signs 
of  returning  feverishness,  caused  by  excitement,  and 
would  not  permit  his  superior  long  to  press  his  in- 


298    THE  MAID  OF  MIRABELLE 

terrogations,  after  Daniel  had  spoken  the  words 
which  meant  freedom  to  Jean  Harent. 

"  You  will  swear  that  what  you  say  is  true,  Mon- 
sieur?" the  commanding  officer  demanded,  bluntly, 
and  with  no  attempt  to  disguise  his  astonishment 
and  doubt. 

"  Those  of  my  faith  follow  the  Biblical  injunction 
and  do  not  swear,  my  commandant.  But  I  affirm 
it,  and  with  a  Friend,  an  affirmation  has  all  the 
sanctity  of  an  oath." 

"  And  you  say  that  you  saw  the  face  of  your 
assailant  ?  " 

"  Yes,  my  commandant." 

"Who  was  he,  then?    Can  you  describe  him?" 

"  I  repeat  that  it  was  not  Jean  Harent.  More  I 
cannot  tell  you,  Monsieur." 

"  But  the  pistol !  You  understand  that  it  was 
found,  and  admitted  by  the  prisoner  to  have  been 
that  of  Lieutenant  Villier,  who  had  declared  that  it 
was  lost?  " 

"  All  that  I  can  say  is  that  somebody  must  have 
found  it,  but  not  Jean  Harent." 

It  was  at  this  point  that  the  physician  interfered, 
for  Daniel  had  lifted  his  voice  excitedly,  and  two 
deep  red  spots  were  beginning  to  burn  in  his  cheeks. 
And  the  Commandant  departed,  shaking  his  head 
and  clearly  unsatisfied. 


SUZETTE'S  CONFESSION      299 

But  when  the  purple  shadows  slowly  blotted  out 
the  glowing  sunset,  whose  colors  had  flooded  Mira- 
belle  with  a  glorious  light  that  evening,  Jean  Harent 
was  free.  And  after  he  had  stood  for  a  moment  by 
Daniel's  bedside,  and  clasped  his  hand  in  a  silence 
that  was  more  eloquent  than  words,  he  went  out 
into  the  night  where  one  star  was  already  shining, 
clear  and  bright  in  the  western  sky. 

Another  went  forth  with  him,  and  as  the  once 
more  kindly  shadows  enveloped  them,  the  Maid  of 
Mirabelle  was  held  close  to  his  heart 


THE  END  AND  THE  BEGINNING 

"  AND  so  the  story  ends,"  I  think,  as  Joan's 
young  voice,  lifted  in  happy  song,  comes  again  from 
below  my  window,  and  I  turn  away  with  one  last 
lingering  glance  at  the  peaceful  scene  before  me. 

Perhaps  it  were  better  to  say  that  one  big  chapter 
in  the  book  of  her  life  is  closed  to-day,  and  another 
begins;  for  although  romancers  regard  marriage 
as  the  end-all  of  their  stories,  realists  insist  that  it 
but  concludes  the  prologue  to  the  greater  drama. 

And  Daniel?  Ah  well,  in  real  life  all  of  us,  from 
time  to  time,  hear  brief  strains  of  unfinished  songs, 
see  fragments  of  comedy  or  tragedy  played  in  some 
small  corner  of  the  world-wide  stage,  and  then  the 
actors  pass  from  our  ken,  and  we  never  know  what 
came  of  it  at  last. 

Indeed,  I  did  not  even  witness  the  events  which 
my  mind  has  just  reviewed,  for  I  came  to  Mirabelle 
during  the  American's  convalescence,  but  as  we  — 
two  strangers  in  a  strange  land  —  became  close 
friends,  I  heard  enough  of  the  story  from  Daniel 
himself,  and  later  from  Joan  and  Jean,  so  that  my 

300 


END  AND  BEGINNING         301 

imagination  could,  without  stretch,  supply  the  miss- 
ing parts  and  rebuild  the  drama. 

This  much,  however,  I  do  know.  His  wonderful 
constitution  enabled  him  to  recover  from  his  wounds 
with  astonishing  rapidity,  and  before  the  end  of 
April  he  was  able  to  travel,  and  left  for  home,  hon- 
orably discharged,  to  complete  his  convalescence. 

I  was  not  present  when  he  bade  Joan  and  Jean 
farewell,  but  I  saw  the  maid  a  moment  afterwards, 
and  her  wonderful  eyes  were  luminous  with  tears. 
And  how  Suzette  and  the  children  from  over  the 
way,  wept  and  clung  to  him  at  parting!  And  how 
the  simple  villagers,  and  many  of  the  soldiers  as 
well,  flocked  to  the  little  cottage  to  shake  his  hand ! 
Only  one  was  missing.  The  very  day  before,  poor 
old  Barbette  had  been  found  in  her  rude  bed,  in  the 
peaceful  sleep  from  which  there  is  no  earthly  awak- 
ening. She  had  finally  passed  "  just  around  the 
corner  where  there  is  rest." 

I  was  able  to  accompany  him  as  far  as  Paris, 
and  —  at  his  request  —  went  with  him  in  a  madly 
driven  taxicab  to  the  address  which  Lieutenant 
Villier  had  given  him  during  their  last  dejeuner 
together.  We  were  shown  into  the  reception  room 
of  his  bachelor  apartment,  and  his  valet  knocked  on 
the  door  to  an  inner  chamber.  The  door  opened, 
and  I  saw  a  tall,  dark  young  man,  dressed  in  civilian 


302    THE  MAID  OF  MIRABELLE 

clothes,  step  out,  and  then  check  himself  with  a 
violent  start.  His  pale,  handsome  face  blanched, 
and  if  ever  human  eyes  spoke  of  remorseful  suf- 
fering, or  human  countenance  bore  the  lines  of 
mental  anguish,  his  did.  I  doubt  if  he  regarded  me 
at  all,  for  his  whole  gaze  was  bent  on  Daniel,  with 
terror  and  relief  struggling  in  it  for  the  ascendancy. 

The  Frenchman  stepped  back,  haltingly.  The 
American  followed.  The  door  of  the  chamber 
closed  behind  them  both. 

What  occurred  within  the  closed  room  only  they, 
and  God,  know.  But  I  could  guess,  for  when  they 
re-appeared,  after  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  perhaps,  an 
amazing  change  had  taken  place  in  both.  It  was 
Daniel  whose  look  was  one  of  deep  weariness,  as 
though  the  interview  had  taken  all  of  his  meager 
strength,  but  the  other's  face  was  almost  transfig- 
ured. His  brief  farewell  was  significant. 

"  I  live  again,  my  friend." 

And  so  Daniel  departed  for  home,  and  whatever 
Fate  held  in  store  for  him  there;  while  I  returned 
to  Mirabelle,  to  take  his  room  in  the  house  of  the 
good  Monsieur  le  Jeune.  But,  although  I  count  all 
of  the  household  sincerely  my  friends,  and  the  be- 
witching Suzette  —  more  child  than  woman  again 
—  has  become  my  little  adopted  sister,  I  know  that 


END  AND  BEGINNING         303 

I  can  never  quite  fill  the  place  in  their  hearts  which 

was  held  by  Daniel  Steele,  Friend. 

******** 

My  musing  review  of  the  days  that  are  gone  is 
brought  to  an  end  by  the  voice  of  the  Maid  of 
Mirabelle,  as  she  calls  from  beneath  my  window, 
"  Hasten,  my  Pierre,  or  thou  wilt  not  be  ready  to 
go  to  the  church,  and  see  thy  brother  Jean  and  thy 
Joan  married.  And,  Pierre,  tell  Marie  to  wash  thy 
face  well,  especially  behind  the  ears." 

"  Oh,  Joan!  And  I  thought  that  it  was  going  to 
be  so  nice,  living  with  thee !  "  The  note  of  protest 
in  the  treble  voice  bespeaks  the  shattering  of  an- 
other childish  dream,  and  the  girl's  merry  laughter 
joins  with  my  own,  as  I  step  back  to  my  post  at  the 
window,  and  look  down  at  the  little  soldier  of 
France,  who  is  dragging  his  sabots  with  rebellious 
slowness  towards  home,  upon  his  glowing  face  a 
shadow  which  seems  like  the  visible  reflection  of  the 
doleful  thought,  "  Even  my  idolized  one,  rfty  Joan, 
is  not  perfect." 

She  glances  up,  and  cries,  "  And  thou,  too,  must 
hasten,  Monsieur.  What  would  thy  friend,  Daniel, 
say,  if  thou  wert  late  at  my  wedding,  for  did  he  not 
charge  thee  to  represent  him  there?" 

"  Yes,  and  behold,  I  am  quite  dressed  —  although 


304    THE  MAID  OF  MIRABELLE 

my  many  thoughts  have  made  me  slow  this  morn- 
ing." 

"  I,  too,  have  been  thinking  of  many  things,"  she 
answers,  her  laugh  dying  away  as  a  faint  sigh. 
"  And  I  have  prayed  the  good  God  that  Monsieur 
Steele  is  as  happy  as  I  am,  to-day." 

"  We  should  not  doubt  it,  Mademoiselle." 

"  No,  and  on  such  a  morning  all  shadows,  big  and 
little,  flee  away.  See,  even  Pierre  is  smiling  again. 
Hasten,  then,  my  little  one,"  she  calls  to  the  boy, 
and  as  her  head  disappears  from  my  sight,  another 
lark  starts  up  from  behind  the  ruined  cottage  op- 
posite, and  wings  heavenward,  throbbing  with  joy- 
ful song. 

For  it  is  May,  and  Morning  in  Mirabelle. 


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Great  Impersonation,  The.    By  E.  Phillips  Oppenheim. 
Greater  Love  Hath  No  Man.    By  Frank  L.  Packard. 
Green  Eyes  of  Bast,  The.     By  Sax  Rohmer. 
Greyfriars  Bobby.     By  Eleanor  Atkinson. 
Gun  Brand,  The.    By  James  B.  Hendryx. 

Hand  of  Fu-Manchu,  The.    By  Sax  Rohmer. 
Happy  House.     By  Baroness  Von  Hutten. 
Harbor  Road,  The.    By  Sara  Ware  Bassett. 
Havoc.    By  E.  Phillips  Oppenheim. 
Heart  of  the  Desert,  The.    By  Honore  Willsie. 
Heart  of  the  Hills,  The.    By  John  Fox,  Jr. 
Heart  of  the  Sunset     By  Rex  Beach. 
Heart  of  Thunder  Mountain,  The.    By  Edfrid  A.  Bingham. 
Heart  of  Unaga,  The.    By  Ridgwell  Cullum. 
Hidden  Children,  The.    By  Robert  W.  Chambers. 
Hidden  Trails.    By  William  Patterson  White. 
Highflyers,  The.    By  Clarence  B.  Kelland. 
Hillman,  The.    By  E.  Phillips  Oppenheim, 
Hills  of  Refuge,  The.    By  Will  N.  Harben. 
His  Last  Bow.     By  A.  Conan  Doyle. 
His  Official  Fiancee.    By  Berta  Ruck. 
'Honor  of  the  Big  Snows.    By  James  Oliver  Curwood. 
Hopalong  Cassidy.     By  Clarence  E.  Mulford. 
Hound  from  the  North,  The.    By  Ridgwell  Cullum. 
House  of  the  Whispering  Pines,  The.     By  Anna  Katharine 

Green. 

Hugh  Wynne,  Free  Quaker.    By  S.  Weir  Mitchell,  M.D. 
Humoresque.     By  Fannie  Hurst. 

I  Conquered.    By  Harold  Titus. 
Illustrious  Prince,  The.     By  E.  Phillips  Oppenheim. 
In  Another  Girl's  Shoes.     By  Berta  Ruck. 
Indifference  of  Juliet,  The.    By  Grace  S.  Richmond. 
Inez.    (I1L  Ed.)     By  Augusta  J.  Evans. 


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Infelice.     By  Augusta  Evans  Wilson. 

Initials  Only.    By  Anna  Katharine  Green. 

Inner  Law,  The.    By  Will  N.  Harben. 

Innocent.     By  Marie  Corelli. 

In  Red  and  Gold.     By  Samuel  Merwin. 

Insidious  Dr.  Fu-Manchu,  The.    By  Sax  Rohmer, 

In  the  Brooding  Wild.    By  Ridgwell  Cullum, 

Intriguers,  The.     By  William  Le  Queux. 

Iron  Furrow,  The.    By  George  C.  Shedd. 

Iron  Trail,  The.    By  Rex  Beach. 

Iron  Woman,  The.    By  Margaret  Defland. 

Ishmael,  (111.)     By  Mrs.  Southworth. 

Island  of  Surprise.    By  Cyrus  Townsend  Brady. 

I  Spy.    By  Natalie  Sumner  Linclon. 

It  Pays  to  Smile.     By  Nina  Wilcox  Putnam. 

I've  Married  Marjorie.    By  Margaret  Widdemer. 

can  of  the  Lezy  A.    By  B.  M.  Bower. 
eanne  of  the  Marshes.     By  E.  Phillips  Oppenheim. 
ennie  Gerhardt.     By  Theodore  Dreiser, 
ohnny  Nelson.    By  Clarence  E.  Mulford. 
Judgment  House,  The.    By  Gilbert  Parker. 

Keeper  of  the  Door,  The.    By  Ethel  M.  DelL 

Keith  of  the  Border.     By  Randall  Parrish. 

Kent  Knowles:  Quahaug.    By  Joseph  C.  Lincoln. 

Kingdom  of  the  Blind,  The.    By  E.  Phillips  Oppenneira. 

King  Spruce.    By  Holman  Day. 

Knave  of  Diamonds,  The.    By  Ethel  M.  Dell. 

La  Chance  Mine  Mystery,  The.    By  S.  Carleton. 
Lady  Doc,  The.    By  Caroline  tockhart. 
Land-Girl's  Love  Story,  A.    By  Berta  Ruck. 
Land  of  Strong  Men,  The.    By  A,  M.  Chisholm* 
Las!  Straw,  The.    By  Harold  Titus. 
Last  Trail,  The.    By  Zane  Grey. 
Laughing  Bin  Hyde.    By  Rex  Beach. 
Laughing  Girl,  The.    By  Robert  W.  Chambers". 
Law  Breakers,  The.     By  Ridgwell   Cullum. 
Law  of  the  Gun,  The.    By  Ridgwell  Cullum. 


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League  of  the  Scarlet  Pimpernel    By  Baroness  Orczy. 
,  Lifted  Veil,  The.     By  Basil  King. 
Lighted  Way,  The.     By  E.  Phillips  Oppenheim. 
Lin  McLean.    By  Owen  Wister. 
Little  Moment  of  Happiness,  The.    By  Clarence  Budington 

Kelland. 

Lion's  Mouse,  The.    By  C.  N.  &  A.  M.  Williamson. 
Lonesome  Land.    By  B.  M.  Bower. 
Lone  Wolf,  The.     By  Louis  Joseph  yance. 
Lonely  Stronghold,  The.     By  Mrs.  Baillie  Reynolds. 
Long  Live  the  King.     By  Mary  Roberts  Rinehart. 
Lost  Ambassador.     By  E.  Phillips  Oppenheim. 
Lost  Prince,  The.    By  Frances  Hodgson  Burnett. 
Lydia  of  the  Pines.     By  Honore  Willsie. 
Lynch  Lawyers.    By  William  Patterson  White. 

Macaria.    (111.  Ed.)     By  Augusta  J.  Evans. 

Maid  of  the  Forest,  The.    By  Randall  Parrish. 

Maid  of  Mirabelle,  The.    By  Eliot  H.  Robinson. 

Maid  of  the  Whispering  Hills,  The.    By  Vingie  E.  Roe. 

Major,  The.    By  Ralph  Connor. 

Maker  of  History,  A.     By  E.  Phillips  Oppenheim. 

Malefactor,  The.     By  E.  Phillips  Oppenheim. 

Man  from  Bar  20,  The.     By  Clarence  E.  Mulford. 

Man  from  Bitter  Roots,  The.    By  Caroline  Lockhart. 

Man  from  Tall  Timber,  The.    By  Thomas  K.  Holmes. 

Man  in  the  Jury  Box,  The.    By  Robert  Orr  Chipperfield. 

Man-Killers,  The.    By  Dane  Coolidge. 

Man  Proposes.     By  Eliot  H.  Robinson,  author  of  "Smiles." 

Man  Trail,  The.     By  Henry  Oyen. 

Man  Who  Couldn't  Sleep,  The.     By  Arthur  Stringer. 

Marqueray's  Duel.    By  Anthony  Pryde. 

Mary  'Gusta.     By  Joseph  C.  Lincoln. 

Mary  Wollaston.    By  Henry  Kitchell  Webster. 

Mason  of  Bar  X  Ranch,    By  E.  Bennett. 

Master  Christian,  The.    By  Marie  Corelli. 

Master  Mummer,  The.    By  E.  Phillips  Oppenheim. 

Memoirs  of  Sherlock  Holmes.     By  A.  Conan  Doyle. 

Men  Who  Wrought,  The.     By  Ridgwell   Cullum. 

Midnight  of  the  Ranges.    By  George  Gilbert. 


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Mischief  Maker,  The.     By  E.  Phillips  Oppenheim. 

Missioner,  The.     By  E.  Phillips  Oppenheim. 

Miss  Million's  Maid.    By  Berta  Ruck. 

Money  Master,  The.    By  Gilbert  Parker. 

Money  Moon,  The.    By  Jeffery  Farnol. 

Moonlit  Way,  The.    By  Robert  W.  Chambers, 

More  Tish.     By  Mary  Roberts  Rinehart. 

Mountain  Girl,  The.    By  Payne  Erskine. 

Mr.  Bingle.     By  George  Barr  McCutcheon. 

Mr.  Grex  of  Monte  Carlo.    By  E.  Phillips  Oppenheim. 

Mr.  Pratt.    By  Joseph  C.  Lincoln. 

Mr.  Pratt's  Patients.    By  Joseph  C.  Lincoln. 

Mr.  Wu.    By  Louise  Jordan  Miln. 

Mrs.  Balfame.    By  Gertrude  Atherton. 

Mrs.  Red  Pepper.    By  Grace  S.  Richmond. 

My  Lady  of  the  North.    By  Randall  Parrish. 

My  Lady  of  the  South.     By  Randall  Parrish. 

Mystery  of  the  Hasty  Arrow,  The.    By  Anna  K.  Green. 

Mystery  of  the  Silver  Dagger,  The.    By  Randall  Parrish, 

Mystery  of  the  13th  Floor,  The.    By  Lee  Thayer. 

Nameless  Man,  The.    By  Natalie  Sumner  Lincoln. 

Ne'er-Do-Well,  The.    By  Rex  Beach. 

Net,  The.     By  Rex  Beach. 

New  Clarion.    By  Will  N.  Harben. 

Night  Horseman,  The.    By  Max  Brand. 

Night  Operator,  The.    By  Frank  L.  Packard. 

Night  Riders,  The.    By  Ridgwell  Cullum. 

North  of  the  Law.    By  Samuel  Alexander  White. 

One  Way  Trail,  The.    By  Ridgwell  Cullum. 

Outlaw,  The.    By  Jackson  Gregory. 

Owner  of  the  Lazy  D.    By  William  Patterson  White. 

Painted  Meadows.    By  Sophie  Kerr. 

Palmetto.    By  Stella  G.  S.  Perry. 

Paradise  Bend.    By  William  Patterson  White. 

Pardner*.    By  Rex  Beach. 

Parrot  &  Co.    By  Harold  MacGratfi. 

Partners  of  the  Night    By  Leroy  Scott 


